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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081915">The Weight of Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerprince/pseuds/sunflowerprince'>sunflowerprince</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Multi, Post-Canon Fix-It, and didn't deserve to die an angry husk who never went to therapy, in which jon realizes he has big feelings and figures out what to do with them, in which my OC ruins pretty much everything because she's a messy bitch, in which tim deserved better, no beta we die like all the characters we come to love, we're having a Nice time here but god will it feel Bad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:00:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerprince/pseuds/sunflowerprince</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Elias needs two more Marks to cultivate his Archivist for the Ritual that will remake the world in fear's image. The first is the Lonely, which he is gambling for with Peter Lukas. The second is the Heartbreak, an entity devised of all the consuming fears of love. The two dread powers play off of each other, and Elias knows it is a matter of time and dominoes before he succeeds. To acquire the Mark of the Heartbreak, he has enlisted the services of Vivian St. Claire, an Avatar of the Weight of Love, still burning from a failed ritual of her own. But as with all matters of the heart, things get messy bloody quickly. </p>
<p>Or: Jon is a brilliant, brilliant man who has the emotional intelligence of a single wellington boot, and needs an Actual Eldritch Power to figure out his feelings before it's too late. Feat. Tim Stoker, who has survived the Unknowing despite all his hopes otherwise.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi hello friends and family!</p>
<p>This is a bit of an experimental fic for me. I've had this idea for another Entity for awhile. I like the idea of Jon being so socially dense that it takes an actual creature of nightmares for him to realize he's in love. And Look.....the team did Tim dirty all the way up to the Unknowing he needed therapy like Bad. Which is not to say he will not have a terrible time here because Hi it's the Magnus Archives but it's going to be Nicer than Average.</p>
<p>CWs for this story will be posted with each chapter. For CH 1. CWs are: emotional manipulation.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So do you have any feelings left in that little cicada shell of yours, Elias?” Vivian asked from her perch, legs kicked up over the arm of the chair.</p>
<p>	Elias arched a perfect brow. “You tell me, Ms. St. Claire. That is, after all, your poison of choice.”</p>
<p>	“Mm. Well, there’s certainly not love beating in your chest.” She leaned forward, a predator seeking a scent. “No, I don’t think you’ve felt that in a long, long while.” She tilted her head. “You don’t fear being loved and known because you are certain you can never be known. And you don’t fear not being loved, because…Oh, I see.”</p>
<p>	“Do you?”</p>
<p>	Vivian bared her teeth in a savage approximation of a grin. “Oh, your passions are entirely spoken for, and no human can satisfy them. At this point, you desiccated creature, it would be like the ocean fearing drowning.”</p>
<p>	“Poetic.” Elias said blandly.</p>
<p>	“Hm. So I hear Lukas got his toy, what comes with my happy meal?” She inspected her nails, acrylics filed to sharp tips.</p>
<p>	“Is your Entity’s ascendance and your seat at the table of power not enough for you?”</p>
<p>	“Of course it is. But it would be hospitable of you to provide something in the meantime.”</p>
<p>	“And what…amenities, are you proposing?”</p>
<p>	“Peter got a plaything. I want one, too.” </p>
<p>	“Absolutely not. Peter’s involvement with my staff is a necessary measure to aid my venture. It’s not a matter of <i>fun</i>.” </p>
<p>	“Just Marks, no Claims.”</p>
<p>	“I will not have anyone else eating in the house of the Beholding.”</p>
<p>	“Not true. The Forsaken gets to sink its teeth in. And you need my Mark as much as the Lonely’s if I’m not mistaken.”</p>
<p>	“You need my ritual.” Elias purred. “Or are you so eager to go back to holding hearts in your hands, feeling the life slip out between your fingers, only to find you have failed your god once again?”</p>
<p>	“Oh, you are so very petty.” Vivian said, eyes narrowing. “And pretty, which is a combination I usually enjoy. The fact is, you can’t read your Archivist’s Strings, and you need a child of the Heartbreak, the Dread Muse, to do it. You might be able to guess them well enough, but you need my hand to twist and tug. Allow me this one comfort.”</p>
<p>	“You are aware I could eviscerate you and move on to the next Avatar of the Weight of Love.” </p>
<p>	“You could.” She shrugged. She was scared, of course, by the prospect of dying before a new world was seen, but there was not much use fretting over it. “But the One Who Plays Heartstrings will take offense to you cutting down their favorite. I’m no Archivist but I do good work.”</p>
<p>	“…Fine. A concession. Because I’d rather this be done cleanly and quickly. You may amuse yourself with whatever unlucky soul you can sink your claws into. But this is a rather…barren bunch.” Elias smiled, and it was not any warmer for its sincerity. “Perhaps you’ll get a taste of gristle.”</p>
<p>	“Are you this generous with your lovers? Because truly they’d be wanting.”</p>
<p>	A strangled noise came from the doorway.</p>
<p>	“Hello, Jonathan.” Elias looked up, expression level. “Perfect timing, please join us.”</p>
<p>	A rather compact man walked into the room, his jaw still a bit ajar. </p>
<p>	“This is our Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims. Jonathan, this is Vivian St. Claire, your new archival assistant.”</p>
<p>	Vivian gave him a beatific smile, extended a hand from her position, still strewn irreverently across Elias’s nice chair. </p>
<p>	The Archivist looked down at it blankly, then, his manners getting the better of him, took it gingerly in a brief clasp. “Pleasure, I’m sure.” He turned to Elias. “And why do I need a new assistant, exactly?”</p>
<p>	“With Martin’s transfer and Tim slowly reentering the field, I think you’ll find an extra pair of hands to be quite helpful.”</p>
<p>	“I have Melanie, Basira, and…Daisy. I don’t see the need for another researcher.”</p>
<p>	“You’re being very impolite, Jonathan.” Elias had the affectations of an owner scolding a misbehaving dog they were particularly fond of. “She’s already been contracted, anyways.”</p>
<p>	Jonathan’s face twisted with unease. He glanced from Vivian to Elias. “When you say contracted, you mean…?”</p>
<p>	“In service to the Eye, yes.”</p>
<p>	“So she—you know about all the…?” </p>
<p>	“About all the creepies and crawlies and what have you?” Vivian asked. “Yes, I’m well aware. Well versed, as it were.” </p>
<p>	“Elias.” He said with soft tension. “How many more people are you going to drag into this?”</p>
<p>	“Oh, as many as necessary. Now, what were you here for?”</p>
<p>	“Just…wondering about Martin is, all. With you back I was hoping—I expected him to return to the Archives.”</p>
<p>	“Yes, well. Peter Lukas will be staying on for a specialized research project, and as one of our greatest donors, you see how it wouldn’t be prudent to disturb his studies.” </p>
<p>	Sims continued to look at Elias, brow furrowed, jaw tight.</p>
<p>	“Was there anything else, Jonathan?” Elias tipped his chin. “If not, if you’ll escort Ms. St. Clair to the Archives and get her settled.”</p>
<p>	“…Right.” Clearly dissatisfied but not seeing what could be done about it, Sims looked back at Vivian. “Come along, then.”</p>
<p>	Vivian shared one last look with Elias as she trailed behind the Archivist. His gaze was mirthless, no smirk between co-conspirators, nothing. An expectant expression that simmered.</p>
<p>	A cicada shell.</p>
<p>	A chill ran down her spine like so many centipedes.</p>
<p>	“You know…you know what you’re getting into here? You know I won’t be able to protect you.” The tired man asked, a twist to his lips. </p>
<p>	“Don’t worry, Archivist. I can handle myself.” </p>
<p>	The man paused midstep, half-turning toward her. “Jon, please.” As he finally looked at her, really Looked at her, he froze, head tilted like a bloodhound. “There’s something off about you.”</p>
<p>	“Well, that’s very rude.”</p>
<p>	He took a step closer, looking intense. “I can’t See you.”</p>
<p>	“Sounds like a problem for you and your optometrist, mate.”</p>
<p>	Jon made a derisive noise. “You’re trying to distract me. You know what the Eye is and I. Can’t. See. You. <i><b>What are you</b></i>?”</p>
<p>	The compulsion did not quite slide off Vivian, it went a little sideways, enough that she could fight it. She winced at the static in her head. Elias had said he wouldn’t be able to spare her from everything. Just make it so the Archivist’s supernatural wiles were like tempting suggestions whispered through gauze, rather than irresistible. </p>
<p>	“Okay that was <i>really rude</i>.” </p>
<p>	Jon looked dumbstruck. </p>
<p>	“You do know how to have a normal conversation don’t you?” She huffed, running a hand through her buzzed hair. “Like, ask a normal question instead of trying to rip it out of people’s heads, yea?” </p>
<p>	“I…”</p>
<p>	“Chrissake. I’m an Avatar, okay?”</p>
<p>	Jon drew himself to his full height, which was not impressive, much like a small bird trying to appear larger in the face of a predator. </p>
<p>	“Of whom?” His eyes narrowed and she could almost <i>taste</i> his frustration at not being able to just Know.</p>
<p>	“The Heartbreak, if you must know. Which you do, don’t you?” A little waning moon of a smile perched on her lips. “Does it hurt when you hit the boundaries of your brain? Press against the edges and bruise yourself?”</p>
<p>	“The Heartbreak?” Jon frowned. He seemed to do that a lot. Vivian idly wondered if it would get stuck that way eventually. She could see how fast his brain was working, and how fast it was coming up empty. “Why are you working for Elias?”</p>
<p>	“Now that is a generous oversimplification. But speaking of which, if you could walk and talk—” She made a little shooing motion, and after a few steps he started walking again, too, falling into place beside her, like he didn’t want to give her his back.</p>
<p>	“I don’t like this. I don’t trust this.” </p>
<p>	“Alright.” Vivian nodded. </p>
<p>	Silence stretched between them. </p>
<p>	“So why can’t I See you?”</p>
<p>	Vivian groaned. “Are you going to be like this the whole time?”</p>
<p>	“Curious and suspicious about the interloping Avatar from another fear god who is apparently collaborating with Elias? Yes, succinctly.” She could hear his teeth click together.</p>
<p>	“Hm. Okay, that’s fair. I’m just doing Elias a favor, okay? You seem to lose assistants as soon as you get them, here, and I’m a bit sturdier than they typically make them.” </p>
<p>	There was a stutter in Jon’s steps and Vivian waited for him to recover. She looked with interest at the vibrations in his Strings. He had precious few of them, she noted. Barely enough to play Cat’s Cradle. There were a few ghost threads, the vestiges of loves lost. Those were the ones that trembled.</p>
<p>	“I would think you’d be a little excited by the mystery of it all, no? You’ve been practically spoon-fed since you’ve been here, I would think the Eye would appreciate a little bit of a chase for once.”</p>
<p>	“The Eye cares only about consumption. More and more, and quickly.” Jon said stiffly, resuming walking, apparently deciding he would rather be further away from her than worry about his back.</p>
<p>	They arrived in the Archival offices, Jon gave her a cursory run-down of where everything was, the eyes of several assistants on them. When he was through brusquely pointing things out, they returned to the common room, where the assistants’ desks were. </p>
<p>	“Melanie.” A woman with ink dark hair and a face that naturally frowned. “Basira.” A woman with piercing eyes and a deep blue hijab. “Tim.” A rather dire looking man, with floppy dark brown hair and burns along the left side of his body. She rather liked the damage. </p>
<p>	“This is Vivian. She’s our newest…assistant.” He grimaced.</p>
<p>	“Viv, if you would.” Vivian smiled. The others looked wary. Elias hadn’t given her a complete run-down of the team’s sordid past, just touchstones that were relevant to her task, but she knew enough to agree with his assessment that they were “ a rather barren bunch.”</p>
<p>	Jon shot her a sideways glance. “I’m going to tell them, you know. It’s only right.”</p>
<p>	“Tell them what?” Basira asked, those beautiful sharp eyes narrowing like Vivian was a butterfly being pinned by her gaze. </p>
<p>	“Oh what now?” Tim said bitterly.</p>
<p>	“Vivian, aligned with the Institute as she may be—” He gave her a scorching look. “Is an Avatar of the Heartbreak.” </p>
<p>	“For fuck’s sake.” Melanie’s hand turned into a fist around her pen, knuckles white as bone.</p>
<p>	“Why not?” Tim sighed, despondent. </p>
<p>	“Let’s not act like you haven’t worked with Avatars of other entities before.” Vivian pointed out.</p>
<p>	“What exactly do you know about us?” Basira asked, lips thin. </p>
<p>	“Look, I am here to research, not be your little case study.”</p>
<p>	The answer, unsurprisingly, was not satisfying judging by anyone’s expressions.</p>
<p>	“How are we supposed to trust you, work alongside you?” Basira asked.</p>
<p>	Jon turned minutely toward Vivian to ask, “Can I at least trust you not to harm my team?”</p>
<p>	Vivian’s expression grew earnest. “Oh, of course. I’m not allowed to kill any of you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello! I'm trying to get into the practice of writing every day, but also I am a chaotic being so who knows how that will actually shake out. </p>
<p>CW for this chapter: mention of diets and starvation, compulsion, emotional manipulation, body horror.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a heavy beat of silence.</p>
<p>	“That…that is not as comforting as you think it is.” Jon said finally, at a loss.</p>
<p>	“Oh?” Vivian asked. “Unfortunate.”</p>
<p>	“Let me get this straight.” Melanie began. “We are forced to work with you, because, hello, nothing about the Institute is democratic, and our only insurance is that, presumably Elias, said you’re not allowed to murder us. That’s it, those are the parameters here.”</p>
<p>	“I mean, I can’t irreparably maim you, feed you to my god, or disrupt your research, if you’re looking for nuance. Does that make you feel better?” Vivian asked, ticking each item off on her smoky acrylic nails. </p>
<p>	Melanie and Basira exchanged a glance.</p>
<p>	“Can you…<i>feed</i> off of us?” Basira asked.</p>
<p>	Vivian pointed at her delightedly. “Now <i>that</i> is an interesting grey area. Currently unlikely because, to be honest, you all look a bit bitter from my end. Like those caterpillars that taste bad to predators.”</p>
<p>	“Well that’s one thing going for us.” Tim muttered.</p>
<p>	“<i>Caterpillar</i>.” Jon repeated, offended. </p>
<p>	Vivian shrugged. “That’s your damage. Now that it’s established my presence is non-negotiable and you are relatively safe, will you please tell me what we’re working on because I am actually employed here for the time being and I do so love to be paid.” </p>
<p>	Jon exchanged a queasy look with the rest of his team before finally shrugging as if to say, <i>I hate this too but there’s nothing to be done</i>. “Well. We’re working on a statement that came in earlier this week. It could very well be the work of an overactive imagination, but it wouldn’t digitally record and those get priority. The case has several markers of the work of the Corruption, but the Flesh could be argued for as well.”</p>
<p>	Vivian grimaced. She didn’t have much love for the other Entities (or much love in general, as it were), but there were some that just rubbed her the wrong way. She hated the Corruption. It was just…nasty business. At least with the Flesh, there was some sense of artistry in what they did. But the Corruption was just foul and rotten and made her taste acid. </p>
<p>	“Lovely. What shall I be doing?” </p>
<p>	“I’ll run you a copy of the statement, then have you go to the library. Rosie will direct you where you need to go. You’ll be looking into molds that potentially engender hallucinations, as well as how much plant matter can reasonably fit into a human stomach.”</p>
<p>	“Plant matter?”</p>
<p>	“The statement giver claims a couple months ago there was mold in their boyfriend’s flat that kept coming back no matter what they did. They eventually hired experts who said they were unable to find anything, even when the couple was pointing directly at the substance. Two weeks after that visit, the boyfriend was found with foreign plant matter that seemed to be…growing out of him from the inside. Nasty stuff. Hard to tell where flesh ended and growth began. Weird little creatures, too—”</p>
<p>	“Yep, that’s good enough for me. You keep all that Knowing to yourself, Archivist.” </p>
<p>	“What, scared of another monster?” Melanie baited.</p>
<p>	Vivian leveled an even gaze at her. “I have held a beating heart in my hand, and this is grosser than that.” She tipped her head. “Well. To be fair, that stopped being gross a couple times in.”</p>
<p>	Melanie shut right up and the others looked vaguely ill.</p>
<p>	“You’re fucking with us.” Tim said.</p>
<p>	Vivian sighed. “Jon?”</p>
<p>	“Yes?” He looked quite pale. Maybe a tad green.</p>
<p>	“Ask me.” Vivian implored. “Like, you know, <i>Ask</i> me.”</p>
<p>	“I thought that didn’t work on you?” </p>
<p>	“Not without my consent. Which, by the way, you really should brush up on boundaries, it’s quite concerning.”</p>
<p>	Jon rolled his eyes. “Alright. Fine. Vivian—<i><b>have you—Christ—have you held a beating heart in your hand</b></i>?”</p>
<p>	Vivian felt the compulsion wash over her, and instead of swimming against the tide, she let herself float along, fingertips cresting the water. “Several times. Rituals don’t complete themselves, you know. It’s really not as bad as you might imagine, though the texture is quite off-putting and the thumping sensation—”</p>
<p>	“<i><b>Shut up</b></i>. God.” </p>
<p>	Vivian’s teeth clicked together as she was cut off. She laughed lightly, building up her wall again brick by brick until she was sure he couldn’t pull anything else out of her like taffy. “You know, I imagine that would be rather distressing if I didn’t let you, but as it was, I understand the hype. Very cathartic.”</p>
<p>	“That’s terrible.” Melanie said.</p>
<p>	“You are all awfully judgmental for being monster-adjacent yourselves, you know.” Vivian said, unbothered. “It’s healthier to process it than to fight it.”</p>
<p>	“We <i>really</i> don’t need therapy tips from something like you.” Melanie snipped.</p>
<p>	“Well, I can tell there’s clearly decades worth of unpacking in this room so you might want to talk to <i>someone</i>.” Vivian turned back to Jon. “So. Library?”</p>
<p>	“Tim.” Jon began.</p>
<p>	“Jonathan.” Tim enunciated, expression wary.</p>
<p>	“Please escort Vivian to the library.”</p>
<p>	Tim swallowed what was likely to be a very strongly worded complaint to the manager. </p>
<p>	“Fine.” He bit out. Vivian noted that the heartstring between them was a withered, blackened thing.</p>
<p>	“You don’t have to stay with her.” Jon promised wearily. “Just pass her off to Rosie.” Under his breath he muttered, “<i>God bless her</i>.”</p>
<p>	As soon as they were heading down the hall, they could hear the office break into discordant whispering. Tim looked resolutely forward, walking in silence.</p>
<p>	“So how’d you get the burns?” Vivian asked.</p>
<p>	Tim stuttered in his steps, looking down at her with heated disbelief. He narrowly missed being lanky, just filled out enough. She had to tip her chin up slightly to keep his gaze. His hands clenched and he resumed walking.</p>
<p>	“Explosion.” He said through gritted teeth. He raised his hand to his face then dropped it when he realized what he was doing. </p>
<p>	Vivian hummed.</p>
<p>	“I bet you never expected so much action, signing up to work in a dusty little archive.”</p>
<p>	He huffed out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t even have a proper scope of what <i>not</i> to expect.”</p>
<p>	“Mm. I’m never sure if I’d have preferred to live my life unaware of how deep the layers go.” </p>
<p>	He glanced at her sideways. “We’re not going to do this, you know.”</p>
<p>	“Do what?”</p>
<p>	“Entertain the whole ‘monster, regrettably’ thing. You’ve performed rituals with beating hearts, for Chrissake.”</p>
<p>	Vivian gave him a small smile. “Yes, well. We’d all have had our shot at being different monsters altogether, wouldn’t we have?”</p>
<p>	“Okay we’re <i>definitely</i> not doing the whole ‘humans were the real monsters all along’ bit.”</p>
<p>	Vivian cackled. “Oh, I like you. Something went sour in you a long time ago, didn’t it?” </p>
<p>	Tim was about to respond when he was cut off by the approach of Peter Lukas and Martin Blackwood, just leaving the library.</p>
<p>	“Martin…” He looked at the man with the riotous curls, his tone beseeching. </p>
<p>	“Tim.” Martin replied, voice neutral. Everything about him was a bit faded, like jeans worn soft at the knees. </p>
<p>	“We uh, we’ve been missing you in the Archives.”</p>
<p>	“Have you?” Martin seemed uninterested.</p>
<p>	Before the scene could play out even more painfully from a secondhand perspective, Vivian captured Peter’s attention.</p>
<p>	“Hello, cousin.” Her smile was genuine, if full of mischief.</p>
<p>	“Vivian.” He returned warily. </p>
<p>	Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tim mouth ‘<i>cousin</i>’ at Martin, who merely shrugged, the smallest uptick of his shoulder.</p>
<p>	“Elias mentioned you were in residency at the Institute. Doing ‘specialized studies.’ What was it you were researching again?” She left a void in the air.</p>
<p>	Peter did not fill it. “Oh, you know, nothing I would want to bore you with, something rather niche that I’ll go on about if I start.”</p>
<p>	“Mm. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet the renowned protégé, Martin Blackwood.” She reached beyond Peter, extending her hand to the larger man who was able to make himself small. “Shame I won’t be seeing you much, from what Elias told me, you would have been interesting company. I must say, I feel like I’m wearing your shoes and they don’t fit at all.”</p>
<p>	Martin looked at her hand several moments before taking it in a brief clasp. He looked pained at the contact, and she wondered if it was just the diet of touch-starvation the Lonely prescribed. For just a moment, he looked at her strangely.</p>
<p>	As she was stepping backward, she whispered into Peter’s ear. “Tread carefully, cousin, your threads aren’t so barren anymore. In fact, I think I see a new one unraveling like spider silk.”</p>
<p>	She stepped back fully, smiling, satisfied, at the sudden look of alarm on Lukas’ face. She drank in the fear like aged bourbon, deliberately slow. </p>
<p>	“Martin.” He said brusquely. </p>
<p>	The two drifted down the corridor, seeming to vanish just before they turned a corner.</p>
<p>	“What the <i>hell</i> was that all about?” Tim asked as she continued their path. “You’re related to <i>Peter Lukas</i>?”</p>
<p>	“Not by blood.” She said, distracted. “It’s more of a joke, really. He doesn’t find it very amusing but I’ve always thought—other people enjoying your jokes is just icing, really, if you like yourself.”</p>
<p>	She twined the threads she had stolen from Martin as she had shook his hand with one hand and tugged with the other. She deftly weaved one into a thread of her own and wrapped the other tightly around her knuckle. </p>
<p>	She would follow that heartstring later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Vivian meets Daisy, everyone learns things they didn't want to, and there is a quest to go to a bookstore to find out more about a man with moss spilling out of his potentially undead body.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello! First of all, welcome, and thank you for your encouragement! I'm so happy you like where this is going so far and are fond of my terrible trash child Vivian.</p>
<p>I want you all to know that in my Actual Handwritten Notes for this chapter's outline, I said "she sends a smiley face to Elias, because bitches love smiley faces." Honestly, Elias has hall of fame lil bitch energy and I love him for it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Rosie is delightful.” Vivian announced as she walked into the archival offices.</p>
<p>	An immediate silence fell over the other assistants as she strode by and planted herself at the only empty desk.</p>
<p>	“That’s Martin’s.” Basira said reflexively.</p>
<p>	“Martin’s got his own office now, I highly doubt he’ll mind.” Especially if he was neck deep in the Lonely, she thought, but didn’t mention because there was no use being cruel.</p>
<p>	Basira frowned. Vivian idly wondered what it would take to get her to smile.</p>
<p>	She rummaged around in the draws, partially to obnoxiously make a point of settling in, and partially out of curiosity. She retrieved a rather nice quill tip pen, and her fingertips glanced against some old cassette tapes in the far reaches of the draw. She tugged one forward with her index and thumb to get a better look. It had a date written on the front, smudged before the ink properly dried. Curiously, there was a heartstring attached. Objects were rarely strung to someone, it was rather difficult to truly love something inanimate in a way that intimately tied oneself to it. Whatever was on the tape must have meant a lot to the man. She pushed it back toward the inner shadows of the draw, ignoring the pang in her chest. She craved the knowledge of what made other people tick, what they adored, what they feared to lose or have discovered. She hungered for it, even. But Martin Blackwood was not her person of interest in this endeavor, and she already had a string on him to investigate, one not tied to tapes in the dark.</p>
<p>	Someone cleared their throat and she looked up to see Jon standing a safe distance away. “Find anything pertinent?”</p>
<p>	“There are some molds that can alter how the mind processes things, can affect mood and cause vision changes. But there aren’t any natural molds where they can be perceived by one person and not another, which I think we all knew to begin with, especially given the condition of the boyfriend’s body. And about the plant matter, more than one would think, but it really depends if you mean just within the stomach. The answer is ‘a lot more’ when you consider if it’s within the intestines and the intestines are fully extended.” Vivian reported dutifully. This was a far different scene than her usual day job, and she found she rather enjoyed the change of pace, filthy Corruption aside.</p>
<p>	“Mm.” Jon replied. “Well, Basira was able to call in a favor with Section 31 and get a copy of the autopsy report for the boyfriend, Frederick Gaines. Oh. Section 31 is—”</p>
<p>	“Well acquainted, thank you. Had a bit of a run in, no one liked it. May I see the report?”</p>
<p>	“I thought you didn’t want to be involved with the dirty details of the case.” Basira arched an eyebrow as she passed over the manila file. </p>
<p>	“Well, I’d rather be dealing with the Web or the Dark or several other powers if it was up to me, but I’m nothing if not a professional.” Vivian replied distractedly as she flipped through the file. She whistled when she got to the photos. “Oh, that <i>is</i> nasty business. Riddled with holes and lichen and, my, I really couldn’t guess what the rest of that is.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a carrion beetle?”</p>
<p>	The door to the larger office opened, and a tall, blonde woman walked in who looked like she could use Vivian as a boomerang.</p>
<p>	“Daisy!” Basira exclaimed, face softening. Apparently <i>Daisy</i> was what it took to get her to smile.</p>
<p>	“Basira. Bad news, boss.” She said ironically as she turned to Jon. </p>
<p>	“Is there any other kind of news we get?” Jon said dryly.</p>
<p>	“Corpse’s not at the morgue.”	</p>
<p>	“Excuse me?”</p>
<p>	“I broke in, went to get a look-see. Frederick Gaines’s body isn’t there anymore. Just a big puddle of oozing moss and flesh bits. Who’s that?” She asked, indicating Vivian.</p>
<p>	“This is Vivian—”</p>
<p>	“Viv.” She interrupted. </p>
<p>	“Vivian St. Claire. Our…temp. At Elias’s behest.” </p>
<p>	Daisy’s eyes narrowed and Vivian could practically feel the woman’s hackles rise. The feeling jogged something in her memory.</p>
<p>	“Ah. You’re <i>that</i> one. Detective Tonner.” Vivian nodded in understanding. “Child of the Hunt. So you’re the one who killed my paramour. Oh, that sounds like a cinema line, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>	“Excuse me, what?” Basira asked. </p>
<p>	“You’re what?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>	“Who’d Daisy kill this time?” Melanie asked.</p>
<p>	“I’ve killed a lot of people. A lot of not-so-people.” Daisy said. “You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”</p>
<p>	“Mike. Michael Crew.” Vivian clarified. “Pretty boy with the lightning scars.”</p>
<p>	“You dated <i>Michael Crew</i>?” Jon exclaimed, a bit shrill, really. </p>
<p>	“Yes, I don’t think I could be clearer.” Vivian said patiently.</p>
<p>	“Monsters with monsters, makes sense.” Daisy said. “I’m not in the game anymore, but I could make an exception if you get ideas. Don’t think I can’t smell it on you, the fear you serve.” She bared her teeth, just this side of feral.</p>
<p>	Vivian snapped her teeth right back at her before dissolving into laughter. “So keen on violence, you lot. No, I’m passed it. Once the Heartbreak had its fill I dissolved that tie, cut the string.” She made a little snipping motion with her fingers. “My god wants me to be afraid, not to hurt. Pity, though. I really think I could have loved him. Had excellent taste in documentaries, though he always preferred the ones about space and the ocean floor. And I’ll just say, the Avatars of the Vast are incredibly creative with their abilities in bed.”	</p>
<p>	Tim spluttered, tea running down his front, and Melanie cackled despite herself.</p>
<p>	“Your kind can’t <i>love</i>.” Daisy spat. “And your <i>god</i> doesn’t care about you, no matter what you tell yourself.” </p>
<p>	“Daisy…” Jon murmured, probably in an attempt to decrease the likelihood of bloodshed.</p>
<p>	“First of all, we’re the Heart<i>broken</i>, not the Heart<i>less</i>, stereotypes are hurtful.” Vivian held up a finger. “Second of all, not true. None of the entities have emotions as we experience them, but mine is the closest to knowing the shape of love. And the Weight of Love adores us. It cherishes our fear and is quite protective. And though you fight it every inch of the way, the Beholding cares for you as well. Though to be accurate, the Eye is only capable of distant fondness at best. And it is quite possessive.”</p>
<p>	“I’m not tied to this godforsaken place.” Daisy said venomously.</p>
<p>	“The Ceaseless Watcher doesn’t give a damn if we live or die.” Tim said with vitriol. “Or at least none of us but its precious Archivist.”</p>
<p>	Jon looked devastated.</p>
<p>	“Look, you are the most out of sync, dysfunctional group of marked I have ever seen, but it’s you who’s alienating your entity. Case in point.” She made a little twisting motion with her hand, on the length of heartstring that bound them all together despite themselves, the one that ran outside human perception and extended far beyond even she could see.</p>
<p>	They all jolted in their seats.</p>
<p>	“What the <i>fuck</i>.” Daisy yelled.</p>
<p>	There was an immediate buzzing in her pocket. She opened her phone to a text that simply read ‘<i>Stop</i>.’ from Elias. She sent back a smiley emoji that mirrored her face as well as a string of eyes and tucked her phone away. </p>
<p>	“It doesn’t like that.” Jon said as a full-body shiver wracked him. “The Eye.”</p>
<p>	“As I said, possessive.” Vivian shrugged. “I’m serious, your relationship with your god is very unhealthy.” </p>
<p>	The group of Beheld looked at each other uneasily. Daisy looked taken aback and Tim looked blanched. Maybe this really was the first time they all acknowledged they were inextricably bound. Well, almost inextricably. With a great deal of effort that would leave her ravenous if not broken, Vivian could break those ties. But that would not do anything but anger the Eye and invoke Elias’s wrath. And he might not look up to fighting weight, but he was much more powerful than she and she wasn’t in the mood for being pulled apart fiber by fiber. </p>
<p>	“Now that that’s settled.” She began again when it looked like everyone else was still derailed. “What are we going to do about our slimy bloke?”</p>
<p>	“There isn’t much to be done.” Basira said, recovering first. “Nothing to do with a man reduced to a puddle of supernatural refuse.”</p>
<p>	“Well, it might not actually be him.” Daisy said, refocusing.</p>
<p>	“What do you mean? We have more gross moss people on our hands?” Melanie asked.</p>
<p>	“No, I kind of…scented him on the way out. Like he walked himself out.”</p>
<p>	“Oh, good god.” Jon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “So now we have undead moss people?”</p>
<p>	Daisy shrugged. “We have <i>something</i>.”</p>
<p>	“Alright.” Jon exhaled again, sounding like Atlas shouldering the Earth. “Basira, Daisy, see if you can pick up that trail again, see where it leads. If it leads anywhere suspect or where you’d be in danger, do not engage.” He turned to Melanie. “You stay here, help me crosscheck with other statements, see if we find anything useful. Tim.” He turned to the other man, looking apologetic. “Please take Vivian to see the girlfriend, Laurie. See if we can get access to the apartment.”</p>
<p>	“Is that a request or an order?” Tim asked, dangerously slow.</p>
<p>	“Tim, please.”</p>
<p>	“And why am I the one who keeps getting stuck working with her?”</p>
<p>	“I’m sorry, is rudeness a qualification on the CVs for applying to the Archives?” Vivian groused.</p>
<p>	“You’re good with people.” Jon said. “Better than the rest of us. And, frankly, Vivian is good muscle.”</p>
<p>	“Are you saying I can’t take care of myself?”</p>
<p>	“I’m saying I don’t want to see you hurt, Tim. Not…not again.”</p>
<p>	The confession hung awkwardly in the air, Jon’s heart laid bare in Tim’s hands. Vivian watched curiously.</p>
<p>	“Let’s go.” Tim finally said to her, voice gruff and averting his gaze.</p>
<p>	Despite his dismissal, she could see the heartstring between Tim and Jon, and part of the char had flaked away. She inconspicuously gestured between them and winked at Jon, flashing an ‘OK’ symbol.</p>
<p>	“Oh, I love field trips. In primary school, I thought they were trips to actual fields. Can you imagine my disappointment when we went to a museum? Robbed of so many flowers and bees.” Vivian smiled as they made their way down the corridor, out of the Institute, and into the overcast world beyond. “So, tube?”</p>
<p>	Tim glanced down at her with an indecipherable look before sighing. </p>
<p>	“Yes.” He paused. “Did you, um, did you get the address?” He flushed a little, cheeks warming. His nose was a little red from the chill. </p>
<p>	Vivian beamed, triumphant. She took out the copy of the original statement Jon had given her, which also included a copy of the couple’s contact information, then flashed her phone at him. “Already texted her. We’re going to visit her at her work. It’s a bookstore a few stations away.”</p>
<p>	Tim looked put out, which only made her smile grow. Must chafe, to be stuck with a menace such as herself only to find out she was more on top of things than him. </p>
<p>	She grabbed his hand impulsively, tugging at him. “Come along, partner.” </p>
<p>	He snatched his hand away, practically snarling. “Don’t touch me.”</p>
<p>	“Come along, prisoner of war.” She said in the same upbeat tone, beginning to head towards the nearest station, arms swinging.</p>
<p>	Now that she’d stitched a thread into him, she was finally making good headway into building a latticework of the Archives.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Vivian and Tim interview the ex-girlfriend of one gross moss man, and Vivian takes a rain check on Murder.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello friends and fam! Hope you are well &lt;3 Thank you for joining me on this spooky journey.</p>
<p>This chapter is pretty close to my heart as I've experienced emotional abuse, so please take xtra care of yourself if this is painful territory for you as well. Highlights of the chapter will be posted in the end notes if you need to skip this one.</p>
<p>CWs for this chapter: mentions of physical and emotional abuse, mild body horror, emotional manipulation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What are you looking at?” Tim asked, hunched in on himself defensively next to Vivian on the train. </p>
<p>	“Your discomfort.” She smiled. “Do it again.” Every time he relaxed and their knees or elbows brushed, he cringed away. The false thread she’d woven between them shivered like a particularly juicy spider was traveling it, weighing the web down.</p>
<p>	Tim looked at her balefully. “Why are all you Avatars like this? Either vaguely humanoid, just human enough to be particularly unsettling, or just…sickly gleeful.”</p>
<p>	Vivian took pity on him, got up from her seat, and walked over to the nearest pole, swinging round it to face him again. Her boots clicked against the car floor. “I don’t know, why are you so deeply bitter and practically electric with hostility?” She leaned her face against the cool metal. “I’ve tired of fighting my nature. I’m not human and I’m not going to act like it.” She danced her fingertips up the pole. “I’m a creepy crawly fear creature.” She glanced at him. “And you know what happens to those of us who insist on acting as if we’re anything but?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “We get picked clean.”</p>
<p>	Tim didn’t reply, just somehow furrowed his brows <i>more</i>, like a magic trick.</p>
<p>	Once they got off at their station, Vivian guided them, following the nav on her phone to <i>The Guild &amp; Gully</i>, a small independent bookshop tucked into a strip, with gold floral lettering and an entirely charming entrance full of plants.	</p>
<p>	Vivian pulled up to a stop before the door, peering through the pane of glass. “So are we going good cop or bad cop here?”</p>
<p>	“What?” Tim looked down at her, mystified.</p>
<p>	“Bad cop.” She said. She flexed her fingers, and she could feel the weight of his heartbeat in her palm. He jerked in surprise. “Do you feel that? That’s your heart in my hands. What’s your favourite colour?”</p>
<p>	“What are you doing?” He squirmed. “Stop that.”</p>
<p>	“What’s your favourite colour?” She squeezed. </p>
<p>	He let out a harsh breath as his face and body contracted in pain. “<i>Orange, orange, Christ</i>.”</p>
<p>	She released him. </p>
<p>	“Good cop, for fucksake.” He said, still heaving. “Have any of you Avatars calmed down, once, ever, in your lives?”</p>
<p>	“No.” She answered shortly. “Okay, good cop it is. I don’t expect it will be as expedient but it’s not like we’re in a hurry.”</p>
<p>	“Do you even have any other mode than bad cop?”</p>
<p>	“Truly us Avatars need to shell in for a union with the discrimination we face in the workplace.” </p>
<p>	Tim rolled his eyes, recovered. “Let me take point. Though I’m not quite as charming as I used to be, I’m sure I’ll fair better than you.”</p>
<p>	“You were charming?” Her brows met her hairline. She was going for playful but she stilled when his hand rose to the burnt part of his face self-consciously. She found she did not like the look of mourning in his eyes. “Oh shut up.” She said even though he hadn’t said a word. “You’re annoyingly beautiful.” She practically pushed him into the shop before she could register the expression on his face.</p>
<p>	They found Laurie at one of the small tables where she said she’d be taking her break. She had a cardboard cup of tea in front of her, bag still dipped in. She twiddled with the tag as they approached. </p>
<p>	“Hullo.” She said, a bit on edge. She had a sweet little heart-shaped face and waves of auburn hair. Her eyes lingered on Tim’s face for half a second before averting her gaze, blushing, and she focused on Vivian. “You’re from the Magnus Institute, right? You had some questions about—about Freddy?”</p>
<p>	“Yes.” Tim took the lead, glancing at Vivian as if she might nip at the poor girl. “First of all, I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. You had reported an infestation of mould with strange properties in your flat before Frederick’s…passing, right? Something professionals couldn’t verify.”</p>
<p>	“Yes. There was something odd about it, like it was…I know this sounds loopy, but like it had a <i>presence</i> y’know? Like it was <i>observing</i> us. And it was always worse when Fr—when Freddy was around.” Vivian’s gaze narrowed. She noticed how every time they mentioned the boyfriend, the girl’s eyes shot away, hands trembling round her cup.</p>
<p>	“The thing is we believe you.” Tim said, and the girl swung her gaze up to meet his. “We think there’s something off about all this, and if you’re willing, we’d like to take a look round your flat, see if we can find what the rest of them missed.”</p>
<p>	“I’m glad…it’s nice to be believed.” She said finally. “I don’t think it’s safe there, though. I’m living with a friend for the time being, trying to get out of the lease there. There’s something not right about it.”</p>
<p>	Laurie was a very well loved person, and a very loving person. Her threads were bountiful and vibrant and layered. Which made the bad ones stand out like oil on water. Which made her thread to “Freddy” impossible to miss, with its dripping sludge that she didn’t think any mould could be blamed for.</p>
<p>	“Laurie.” She said softly. The girl looked up at her curiously at her tone, and Tim looked sharply at her. “He’s gone, you know. He can’t hurt you anymore.”</p>
<p>	The young woman’s hands tightened around her cup, heartbeat picking up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>	“Vivian.” Tim said in warning. </p>
<p>	“It’s alright, Laurie. You don’t have to say anything. I won’t try to make you.”</p>
<p>	“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She repeated firmly, but there was a layer of fear in her voice that called to Vivian, that told her the denial could be popped with a pinprick. She didn’t push.</p>
<p>	“Alright.” Vivian agreed with a nod. “Look, Laurie, I’d like to make a deal with you.” She took the girl’s heartbeat, felt it steady in her palm. She held Freddy’s heartstring, felt it ooze through her fingers.</p>
<p>	The girl gasped softly, looking up at Vivian like she knew instinctively it was her that was causing the strange feelings in her chest.</p>
<p>	“You feel that, yeah? That’s your heart in my hand.”</p>
<p>	“<i>Vivian</i>.” Tim hissed, hand clamping around her arm, fingers so deep it hurt. She ignored him.</p>
<p>	“What I’m proposing is—and you can say no, you can absolutely say no and I’ll speak no more of it—what I’m proposing is, you give us a spare to your flat, you trust us that we know what we’re getting ourselves into, and you never hear from us again. No follow-up. No contact. And I’ll take this with me, this thing tying you to Frederick Gaines. I can’t take your memories and I can’t take the hurt, but I can take the fear. I can take the parts of you that are being strangled by him.”</p>
<p>	There were tears in Laurie’s eyes, threatening to spill over. A fine sweat had broken out over her brow. Vivian tugged gently on her heartstrings, the whole mass of them, in a way that reminded the woman of all the other anchors keeping her aloft. She could tell there was an ache in them, a distance forged from the dead weight of her relationship with Frederick Gaines.</p>
<p>	“I don’t want to forget.” Laurie said finally, voice barely there. “I want to remember and I want to…I want to never let it happen again.”</p>
<p>	Vivian nodded soberly. “So that’s a yes, then?”</p>
<p>	Laurie met her gaze and there was a strength there underneath all the fibreglass splinters. “Yes. Do it.” </p>
<p>	Vivian hummed an assent. “Alright. It will be strange, but it won’t hurt.” This wasn’t like what she’d done with Martin, tying his strings into hers, almost like the spare key they would be getting from Laurie. It was an unweaving, a snipping, a dissolving, a pure disentanglement and unraveling of the thread that bound her to her abuser. She pulled at the oily, waxy heartstring that had gone putrid over time. She coaxed it away from Laurie’s heart, pulling it thinner and thinner until she finally pulled it free with a fine snap. She could have drawn out the process, and if she wanted to be cruel, she could have ripped the thread free. But Laurie had certainly been through enough. She consumed the thread, and with it, the ugly lifespan of it, the ghosts of affection, his apology flowers, the breaking glass, the apologies for things that were not her fault, the blood swirling pink down the drain, her favorite clothes she’d thrown out because she looked like a “slut” in them, the forehead kisses he pressed against her when she was sick, the whole candy apple full of worms.</p>
<p>	She consumed it all, and when she was done offering up the fear to her patron, taking her share of the soul deep <i>wrongness</i> of a spoiled heart, she centered herself with a full-body shudder.</p>
<p>	Tim’s hand flexed against her arm, and she patted at it absently. </p>
<p>	“Oh.” Laurie breathed. “I can’t—I mean it’s—it’s all there, I remember it all, but I don’t—I can’t—”</p>
<p>	“I know.” Vivian said soothingly. “It’s an adjustment. The key, please.”</p>
<p>	“Sure, sure.” Laurie said distractedly, one hand pressed against her chest in a daze. She pulled a slim paper packet out of her pocket, sliding it across the wooden face of the table. “I’m serious, there’s something…there’s something not okay about that place. It only got worse when he died.” </p>
<p>	Vivian smiled. “Thank you. We’ll tread carefully. Now.” She dug into her satchel, pawing through her wallet and retrieving a card. She slid it across the table, tapping it with one sharp acrylic. “If you ever decide you want to…untangle, a bit. You can call them up. Say that you’re an acquaintance of mine, they’ll see right to you.” </p>
<p>	Laurie held the card in both hands like it was something fragile, like a baby bird. “Alright.” She said slowly.</p>
<p>	“We’re done here.” Vivian said decisively. “Thanks for your time.”</p>
<p>	The other woman nodded. As Vivian and Tim left her, she was still staring at the card in her hands.</p>
<p>	As soon as the door closed with a soft bell ringing behind them, Tim turned to her. “What was that?”</p>
<p>	Vivian shook her head. “You’re not dim, you know exactly what that was. Now we need to get back to the Institute and touch base with the others and do the proper thing because if we wait around another second I’ll go off on my own.”</p>
<p>	“Go off on your own to do <i>what</i>?” Tim asked warily.</p>
<p>	“To kill Frederick Gaines. For good this time.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Highlights of the chapter:</p>
<p>Vivian makes a deal with Laurie to take the heartstring that ties her to her abuser and she and Tim now have a key to Laurie and Frederick's flat. They are heading back to the Archives to meet with the rest of the team.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Vivian follows Martin's thread.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello sweet beans! I couldn't sleep last night so I cranked out like four chapters at once, Lord.</p>
<p>In case anyone forgot,, I am here to remind you,,, Vivian is indeed a Messy Bitch. </p>
<p>CWs for this chapter: emotional manipulation, crossing boundaries.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Basira and Daisy had not returned to the Institute by the time Tim and Vivian got back, so they briefly recounted their adventure to Jon and Melanie and settled in to wait. Vivian relinquished the spare key to the flat to Jon because he was their boss or something and frankly, she didn’t want the responsibility.</p>
<p>	“Did you two find anything interesting in the older statements?” Tim asked, leaned back in his chair. He kept shooting Vivian odd looks and she was about to tip him over if he didn’t stop.</p>
<p>	“Well, precedent does show in a couple older encounters with the Corruption that abnormalities like the mould and Prentiss’ hive,”—Tim and Jon both grimaced—",can be borne of interpersonal relationships or lack thereof. I wouldn’t be surprised if the toxic nature of the relationship spurred on the manifestation of the growth that consumed Mr. Gaines.” Jon finished, pushing up his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. Vivian idly wondered that <i>this, this</i> was the man that so much hinged on.  A travel-size nerd who, for all that his job was to organize what was going on, had no bloody idea what was going on, about most things, at any given time. </p>
<p>	“So why hasn’t the girlfriend been affected?” Melanie began. “Prentiss was altered through her…her loneliness, I suppose, her submission to infestation in exchange for the experience of being part of something, for being loved? So it follows that their terrible relationship hit some kind of peak that allowed the Corruption to worm its way—um, I’m not sure if that’s even a pun, really—into the man. So why hasn’t anything manifested in her?”</p>
<p>	“I dunno, she did say that she wasn’t at the flat anymore, that she was staying with a friend because there was something even worse about it with Gaines dead.” Tim said, chewing at a pen. “Maybe she left before whatever presence has taken up there could physically or mentally alter her. With the vast difference in how she was affected when both of them were living there with the same amount of exposure, I’m inclined to believe she might never have been affected, or, rather, infected, at all.”</p>
<p>	“Well, considering he’s an abuser, I’m going to go ahead and lay my money on the fact that he was rotten to begin with.” Vivian offered, tapping away at her phone. There was a slight silence, just long enough to be more than a natural pause. She glanced up. “What? It’s a solid theory. Terrible corrupt man is prone to nasty supernatural mutation via nasty fear entity? Survivor, who, by surface evidence, is not a terrible corrupt person, and as such does not become a nasty supernatural mutant?”</p>
<p> 	“No, you’re not wrong.” Jon said with a puff. “It’s just. There’s something off centre.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “This would be a lot simpler if I could have just asked her myself.”</p>
<p>	“But we’re not eating people in this household.” Melanie said.</p>
<p>	“But we’re not eating people in this household.” Jon echoed dryly in agreement. “I think—I think what gets me is the fear itself. Whose fear was it that was harvested? Was it Gaines’s fear of Corruption or was it Laurie’s?”</p>
<p>	Vivian frowned. “Hm. I see what you’re getting at. So you’re thinking maybe her fear manifested in him?” </p>
<p>	“It’s not like second parties haven’t been caught in the crossfire of others’ fears before. Or had them projected upon them.”</p>
<p>	“Does it really matter, though?” Tim asked. </p>
<p>	“Well, for one, I want to Know.” Jon said, frustrated. “But also, if it’s not his, if he hasn’t been consumed totally by the Corruption, if he’s still about—”</p>
<p>	“If it’s hers, she might not be safe.” Melanie said, troubled.</p>
<p>	Jon pointed at her. “That. That’s it.” </p>
<p>	Vivian dropped her phone. “He might just be the face of the Corruption coming for her.” Her heartbeat picked up. She’d promised Laurie that she’d never see or hear from them again. She could barely stand to break that confidence, but if it was the choice between her trust and her life—</p>
<p>	Tim swore. “And we just left her alone.”</p>
<p>	“Look, we don’t know for sure.” Jon said, a bit bitterly. “As it is she’s already doing all she can to separate herself and keep herself safe. No need to re-traumatize her yet. Let’s wait until Basira and Daisy get back before we make any rash decisions.”</p>
<p>	“Yeah, you’re right.” Tim breathed, clearly not satisfied.</p>
<p>	Vivian nodded slowly to herself, reigning back in the panic. Things could be fine. The Archivist did not Know and there was still a grey sea of calm until proven one way or the other. </p>
<p>	“Alright.” She agreed, standing up. In the meantime she had other things she could be doing. Or rather, the things she was here to do.</p>
<p>	“Where’re you going?” Melanie asked, frowning. </p>
<p>	“To do my job.” </p>
<p>	Melanie glanced round the office then back at her, brow raised. </p>
<p>	“She means her real job.” Tim said bitterly. </p>
<p>	“The real reason Elias has you here.” Jon said quietly, as if he could have forgotten.</p>
<p>	“I have a meeting with Martin, okay?” </p>
<p>	The mood in the room shifted almost tangibly.</p>
<p>	“Martin?” Tim echoed dully.</p>
<p>	“Why are you meeting with Martin?” Jon asked, face drawn. He looked a bit lost, and she had the sensation that they all were wondering why her and not them?</p>
<p>	She smiled, and it wasn’t very nice at all. </p>
<p>        Then she left.</p>
<p>	She hadn’t been lying, really, in a roundabout way she would be meeting with Martin, following the string she’d tethered, the strongest one of his meagre bunch. It was an extension of him, after all. She intended to sort of reverse engineer the Archivist. He was too closely aligned with the Eye—the favorite son, if you will—that he would certainly feel it if she directly touched his threads. She was going to work backwards through the threads of those around him, the ones closest to him. And when she found the right thread, she was going to rip it straight out of his chest. </p>
<p>	The thing about people like Jon, was that they always thought they were safe from heartbreak. That they were walled off enough. That they were fine being unknown. Could not be ravaged by love if they did not seek it nor accept it.</p>
<p>	But Vivian knew in her heart, and from the tendrils of the Dread Muse, that while not all were ruled by their fears of love, every last one of them, every wayward vessel of flesh, was able to be torn asunder. </p>
<p>	She waited until she was almost to the library before she picked Martin’s thread out of the tangle she’d stolen and held it loosely wrapped through her fingers. She was lucky to have bumped into him, because it would have taken some engineering on her and Elias’ part otherwise, domain of Peter’s as he was. The string was rather sheer, no doubt an effect of the Lonely, which was ever creeping into him like fog spilling down a funnel. It was a nuisance to be sure, like a trick of the light, at most angles the thread was nigh invisible. But she had a practiced eye. She began following the heartstring, giving it enough slack that it shouldn’t cause any stirrings in the boy’s heart, any inkling that his divided devotion to the Eye might tattle on her.</p>
<p>	As she followed it through the twists and turns and levels of the Institute, she was delighted to find it leading back to the Archives. Oh, it was a very strong one, and it would be absolutely divine if she struck gold the first go. She had thought the Archivist might be so barren that she’d have to make do with the wounded, limping thing between him and Tim. To make a true brand of the Heartbroken, she needed the broken to be aware of the love that was being toyed with. And after just a short while in his company, she knew exactly what Elias meant when he said the Archivist wasn’t very attune to love at all. For instance, even without stealing their threads, Vivian knew that he and Tim were better off than he thought. That though they were bonds forged under duress, the bonds he had with the rest of the archival staff were no less true. </p>
<p>	The string she’d pulled disappeared into the offices of the Archives, and though she was almost certain of herself, she peered through the pane of glass to be sure as she gave the barest tug. </p>
<p>	Oh, yes.</p>
<p>	It was certainly the Archivist on the other end of it.</p>
<p>	“I’m not sure why you’re meddling with me, but you really need to stop. Now.”</p>
<p>	Vivian turned.</p>
<p>	“Hello, Martin.” She smiled.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Will I ever tire of writing Lonely!Martin? Scientific studies say No.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Vivian and Martin get into a spat, and Jon once again proves he has the emotional intelligence of a single prune.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My heart is always torn between having characters have a nice time and having them have the really, really worst.</p>
<p>CWs for this chapter: emotional manipulation, threat of isolation, triggering trauma, asphyxiation, mild gore, implied murder.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He did not smile back.</p>
<p>	“I’m very interested that you felt me meddling at all. I was on my best behavior. Didn’t rend anything, not even a little.” </p>
<p>	“I’m part of the Lonely.” He supplied. “I’m hyperaware of anyone’s senses directed at me.”</p>
<p>	Oh, that did make sense. A miscalculation. Unfortunate, but the end result was what mattered. Martin couldn’t make her forget what she knew now.</p>
<p>	“So does he know?” She asked, head tilted. “That your passions are distinctly not fraternal?”</p>
<p>	“Don’t.” Martin said darkly. </p>
<p>	“Elias mentioned you had a rather intricate past. I wondered what would drive a man to languish at his cruel boss’s bedside as he lay broken. Was your self worth truly that tied up in him that you sat at his feet like a dog, waiting for direction? Even a cutting remark would be welcome?” </p>
<p>	“Shut. Up.”</p>
<p>	“You’re right, that was cruel. I’m sorry.” She chewed at her lip. “I get carried away, sometimes. I can feel how scared you are of him Knowing. Scared of him finding out. Is it because you think he won’t return it? I can find out. I really hope he does.” </p>
<p>	“You leave him alone.”</p>
<p>	“I really can’t do that, but I appreciate your sensitivities on the matter.”</p>
<p>	Martin took a step forward out of the pocket of invisibility he’d made for himself. Fog curled around his feet, snaked up his legs in a slow caress. Vivian felt the temperature drop in the room. </p>
<p>	“I can make sure you do. Leave him alone, that is.” Martin said softly.</p>
<p>	“I’m so curious as to how.” </p>
<p>	“I can feed you to it, the Lonely. I can feel it, the possibility.” </p>
<p>	Around them, the sound of waves rolled lightly, the air became heavy with the scent of brine. The edges of reality bent a bit, and though it seemed like she was looking through a film of fog, Vivian knew well that they were on the threshold of yawning emptiness. </p>
<p>	She stepped forward, and Martin not-quite-cringed back. She smiled, seeing it as the mark of the Lonely, a man who made himself smaller, who rounded himself out so people only saw the lovable bits. The man who knew even those might not be enough. Hadn’t been enough.</p>
<p>	“Stop that.” Martin whispered, and she realized she’d been speaking aloud, reading his strings like a tarot spread. </p>
<p>	“A mother that could not stand you, an absent father, a lifetime of short-lived friendships.” Vivian noted, not even maliciously, just factually, like an article in the local paper. “And then you came here, and you made friends of monsters, and somehow those were the ones that stuck.”</p>
<p>	The scent of the seashore grew ever stronger, and though she was certain his eyes were hazel when she’d met him, Martin’s eyes had gone pale as the fog, his skin slightly translucent. The mist rose around her, coiling around her wrists, obscuring his thread. She felt the sinking pull of it all, like being rocked in a cradle, down, down, into the Lonely. She stepped right to him, refusing to let him hide. She stood up on her tiptoes.</p>
<p>	“Do you want to know a secret, Martin Blackwood?” She whispered into his ear.</p>
<p>	He shivered at her closeness. It was a wonder, how much he must truly care for the Archivist to fight for this thread, to stay so present. </p>
<p>	“You may send me down into the drowning depths of the Lonely.” She said. “But while I can be Lonely…I can never be Lost.” </p>
<p>	He let out a sharp breath that was a stirring of fog.</p>
<p>	She clenched her fist tight around his heart, and he staggered, hand gripped to his chest, becoming, she knew, unbearably solid. </p>
<p>	“Send me wherever you wish. I will follow my heartstrings back through hell to you.” She released him.</p>
<p>	He glared at her for a moment, full of hate and fear, before dissolving back into himself. </p>
<p>	She tsked and walked out of the dissipating fog, back into the Archives. </p>
<p>	The string did indeed lead to Jonathan Sims, a bright, burning thread that she found, with a true bolt of euphoria, was reciprocated, if dormant. </p>
<p>	The high was short-lived however, when she realized that Basira and Daisy had returned, and everyone was looking at her. She tensed, ready to fight if need be.</p>
<p>	“Vivian—” Jon said, and the concern in his voice drew her up short. </p>
<p>	It then occurred to her that there was the whirring of a tape recorder. But why should that matter, consulting recorded statements was part and parcel of working in the Archives, why—unless—</p>
<p>	“I—I found your statement.” Jon began uncertainly. “It just, occurred to me, with my, you know, my regular memory. Something seemed familiar about you, it’s been bothering me since you arrived.” She immediately knew they had all listened. Together. </p>
<p>	“Boundaries, Archivist.” She said dangerously softly, feeling the pure absence of light in her face. She schooled herself quickly, though. “Right. Well. What did Basira and Daisy have for us, then?”</p>
<p>	Jon’s brows drew together. “I’m just, I wanted to apologize—”</p>
<p>	“Whatever for? I’m not the woman in the tape anymore.”</p>
<p>	“I—be that as it may—”</p>
<p>	“Doesn’t really change anything about our situation, does it?”</p>
<p>	“….no, I suppose it doesn’t.”</p>
<p>	“Lovely. Now about our potential creature of filth—”</p>
<p>	“I just—we could have helped you, Vivian. We could have helped you and we, we <i>didn’t</i>.” </p>
<p>	Vivian breathed deeply, trying to maintain her patience. She tapped her fingers against her thigh, grounding herself in the indentations her nails made. “I’m really not as interested in your apologies as you are in giving them, Archivist.” </p>
<p>	“I know, I just…I treated you so terribly.” </p>
<p>	“Yes, I remember, you scoffed at me. But here I am, in one piece, all’s well and all.”</p>
<p>	“You’re not like you should be.” He said quietly. </p>
<p>	And all the air in the room went out.</p>
<p>	Her nails twitched against the fabric at her thigh.</p>
<p>	“No.” She said.</p>
<p>	“What?” He asked, alarmed at the tone of her voice.</p>
<p>	“No, you don’t actually get to pretend you care about me just because you feel responsible for what I am now.” </p>
<p>	“That’s not—” He began.</p>
<p>	“Vivian.” Daisy warned.</p>
<p>	“You just have a craving, then?” She asked. “Need to get your fill of trauma but you’re kicking the habit so you thought you’d heat up some leftovers? I don’t even judge you, really, I would do the same if I were you, digging through the meat of the enemy at your table. But don’t have the audacity to come away from it thinking you know a goddamn thing about me.”</p>
<p>	“Vivian, I didn’t mean—”</p>
<p>	“<i>Shut. Up. Jon</i>.” She could hear her blood in her ears, <i>his</i> blood in her ears. She could feel his heartbeat in her palm and she. Made. A. <i>Fist</i>. </p>
<p>	He was on his knees, mouth agape, and she didn’t need to see the terror on his face because she could <i>feel</i> it, sharp and poignant. It was the best thing she’d tasted in years, all the notes of him, the horrors he’d felt and seen and done.</p>
<p>	Dimly she was aware of Daisy getting up, of Basira reaching for a holster that was not there. </p>
<p>	The Archivist was spluttering, ugly noises of desperation and she knew she shouldn’t kill him, there was a greater purpose to him but all it would take was the slightest <i>twist</i>—</p>
<p>	“Viv.” Tim’s voice broke through, entreating. “Good cop.”</p>
<p>	She had no idea why that drew her up short. Took the air out of her lungs in a crushing swoop. She released Jon’s heart, and he collapsed, still looking up at her with wide eyes while Melanie and Basira rushed to his side. </p>
<p>	“Right. Good cop.” She said breathlessly. And she left the room. </p>
<p>	Tim trailed after her.</p>
<p>	“Viv—”</p>
<p>	“Don’t.” She said softly, not able to summon the venom she meant to burn him with. </p>
<p>	“Look, it’s—you’re right, it shouldn’t have went down like that.” He frowned. “Us listening, I mean. And your—your original statement.”</p>
<p>	She drew on the One Who Plays Strings, and it obliged, pulling its strings taut around her, a steadying compression. “We’re not doing this bit, remember?” She smiled humourlessly. “’<i>Monster, regrettably</i>.’”</p>
<p>	And she left him on the stairs, made her way out of the Institute, out into the bracing almost-night.</p>
<p>	Elias was waiting for her. </p>
<p>	Her hands went around his heart, a defensive reflex.</p>
<p>	His mouth ticked upward. “I would be careful about that. I might choose to be amused. Or I might not.” </p>
<p>	She felt his fingertips in her mind, a threatening caress, the softness of something that could become agonizing in an instant. “Intimate.” She said dryly, teeth bared. </p>
<p>	By all means she should be terrified, and she was, but for a creature fueled by fear, it really made her more…intrigued, than anything. But the feeling of his heart between her teeth would be more intriguing. At the full-on smirk Elias developed, she rolled her eyes. </p>
<p>	“Another time, maybe.” She said, flexing against his heart for emphasis before she relinquished it. “When I feel like fighting a losing battle.”</p>
<p>	“Well, a losing battle is always here when you’d like one.” He smiled coldly. “In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t break my Archivist.”</p>
<p>	“Yes, well, with each passing moment I wonder how you haven’t killed half your staff <i>unprovoked</i>.”</p>
<p>	“They are a trying bunch.” He ceded, still smiling. </p>
<p>	“Consider this me clocking out for the day before I eat anyone alive.” She said mildly. “And though I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve found my in on the Archivist. Did you know the boy loved him?”</p>
<p>	“You’d have to be Jonathan not to.” He drawled. </p>
<p>	“Bloody voyeur.” She said, brushing by him.</p>
<p>	“Aren’t you curious about what our resident detectives have discovered?” Elias called after her. </p>
<p>	“I’m sure you’ll add me to the groupchat.”</p>
<p>	No matter how far away from the Institute she wandered, she couldn’t get settled. She felt absolutely volatile, like she might burst out of her skin. She wanted to dig her fingers into her chest and claw out the sensation until she was numb and alone in her flesh.</p>
<p>	She could go home and do a crossword, put on the tea, burn off some energy with yoga.</p>
<p>	Or she could go find someone to rend apart one heartstring at a time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Honestly I would probably try to kick Elias' ass knowing full well he'd eviscerate me bc it would just be a law of nature, me tryna kick his ass.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. statement of vivian st. claire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Some background,, as a treat.</p>
<p>Or: In which retro Jon makes an appearance, a vintage prick. A callous lad. </p>
<p>CWs for this chapter: invalidation of trauma, body horror, mild gore, eco horror, nightmares and sleep paralysis.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have hella respect for Jonny because not only does he write incredibly diverse statements for f o u r t e e n distinct entities, he also writes in s t a t e m e n t  f o r m.</p>
<p>Bold.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Statement of Vivian St. Claire, regarding the session of a non-existing client, after which a recurring nightmare preceding sleep paralysis began. Statement taken directly from subject, February 27th, 2017. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. <br/>Statement begins. </p>
<p>	<i>Hi, uh, hello. Sorry I—I’ve never done this kind of thing before, it really isn’t my, um, scene, no offense. Never much into those ghost hunting gigs, like</i> ‘What the Ghost’ <i>and what have you. Love reading ‘bout ghosts much as the next, in books y’know, where they’re proper. Anyways this isn’t really a ghost story, it’s—well I hope you can tell me. So I’m a relationship counselor, marriages and family counseling and the like. Or at least I was, I’m on a bit of a sabbatical after all this went down. Sorry—to the point. I was waiting for a session with one of my ongoing clients, can’t give you details, confidentiality and all, but. We’ve had a working relationship for about two years now, meeting at the same time, same day, every week. So one Wednesday, it comes to his appointment time and the door to my office opens and I’m starting to welcome him as I do except a stranger walks in. And I say, ‘Can I help you? I hate to rush you but I’m expecting a client.’ And he says, ‘That’s me’ and I say, ‘It can’t possibly be.’ –and I look at my schedule and he’s right, it’s not my usual client in the time slot and I’m squinting and he says, ‘It’s okay most people can’t pronounce my name’ but the thing is there aren’t even Letters.</i></p>
<p>	<i>I keep trying to make sense of what I’m seeing on the page, but every time I think I see anything close to pronounceable English, it gets all muddied up, just scribbles of ink on the page. So I give that up, already unsettled, and switch gears because I’m here to help people, yeah? I can’t just fall apart in front of them. So I offer him the seat across from me and take a shaky seat myself and I apologize for getting my sessions mixed up and he laughs and says it’s quite alright. And I invite him to tell me what’s brought him in, what he’d like help with and he tells me—he says he’s there to help me. And I laugh a bit and say that’s not really how this works. And he smiles gently and asks me—he asks when I decided to become a counselor and I reply, well I’ve always been a bit soft and waxed poetic about what inspired me to study psychology and interpersonal dynamics and he keeps smiling that gentle smile until I’m done and he says—he says no that’s not quite it, Dr. St. Claire. No you decided to become a counselor when you saw your parent’s marriage fall apart and you dissected it for years like a little bug with pins in it and you decided you weren’t to blame after the first few of those years and then you wanted to know, wanted to understand what made love tick and grow and fail and die. And now here you are, and you see it every day, love in its many layers of glow and filth, and you think oh there are so many ways to love and be loveless. And I noticed then that I was crying. And I wiped at my tears with the sleeve of my jumper and he reached up into his mouth and pulled out flowers, just blooms and blooms and blooms and I stared and then suddenly, no, I was mistaken, he just had a handkerchief with a flower print on it. And he offered it to me and I felt silly, of course.</i></p>
<p>	<i>And I turn away to wipe my eyes before turning round to hand it back but he’s gone. I swear there were no footsteps, no sound of fabric on fabric as he got up, the door was closed just as before. So I’m shaken really bad, right, and I don’t have any more appointments for the day so I go home and try not to think about the day or the handkerchief in my office draw. I get home and it’s blessedly normal, say hi to the cat, lounge about, eat, read, sleep. And then, god, I dream. There are lights overhead, so bright my eyes sting. I want to shut them but I can’t. The pain builds and I think it’s like a knife, a knife in my eyes. I feel the cold first. That’s how I realize I’m on a metal table. I’m wearing a dressing gown and it's not right, it’s not right for surgery, all lacy, but the surgeon comes anyway. And they lean over me and I think this is it, they’re going to cut me open. But then I can move finally, at least my neck, and I look down into my own chest cavity. And the surgeon is reaching down and I try to scream but I’m choking on roses—I can feel the thorns in my throat. And the surgeon holds my heart up to the knife of light and they nod and raise it to their lips and they begin to chew. And I can feel it—I can feel the teeth and the surgeon turns their head and I can see it now—the honey pouring from their eyes and creeping downward, a slow amber crawl. And I can see now that it’s me, my heart in my hands, and as soon as I know it, I try to scream but I can’t, we’re choking on roses, blooms pouring crimson. I can see the thorns in our throats.</i> </p>
<p>	<i>Then I wake up but I can’t move, I feel like I’m still on that table. My ability to move comes back slowly and I—I kind of hold onto myself, to prove I’m awake, and my chest stings. I look down, pulling my nightshirt aside and I see there are long scratches as if something had clawed into my chest, trying to burrow there. I look down and my fingernails are all red underneath.</i></p>
<p>	<i>I’ve had this dream every night for the last week. I’ve been sleeping in bandages so I can’t scratch myself any rawer. I don’t know how long I can do this. I’ve been taking caffeine pills, having energy drinks. I don’t want to sleep again. You’d think it would get easier, yeah? You know what to expect when you close your eyes. But the dread just keeps growing. I’ve had to take sick leave—the first in over a year. I just can’t let my clients see me like this. I haven’t gone back to the office. I know the handkerchief’s waiting for me. I know if I look at my calendar I will not be able to read it.</i></p>
<p>	Statement ends.</p>
<p>	<i>(A sigh.)</i></p>
<p>	Don’t know there’s much worth pursuing here. I’ve tried to follow up with Dr. St. Claire but it appears she’s still on leave and either her practice can’t or won’t give me any further details. Honestly it sounds like she should get some counseling herself. </p>
<p>	Recording ends.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Vivian and Tim meet just, So Many worms.</p>
<p>CWs for this chapter: canon typical worms and crawlies, emotional manipulation, references to domestic abuse, body horror, graphic violence, dismemberment.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello friends and fam! Hope you are having a good go of it. </p>
<p>This chapter was surprisingly difficult for me to write. I was originally gonna have Jon realize his feelings in this one b u t as a writer and reader it didn't feel satisfying to me. Let's make things Harder,, in the true TMA spirit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Vivian walked into the Archives the next morning, everyone present either froze in place or half-rose out of their chairs. </p>
<p>	“Oh absolutely fucking not.” Melanie said.</p>
<p>	She arched a brow. “Is Jon in?”</p>
<p>	“Stay away from him.” Daisy warned.</p>
<p>	She took that as a ‘yes’ and made her way to his office. She listened for the sound of whirring tape and monologuing but when she didn’t hear anything she opened the door without knocking.</p>
<p>	“Yes?” Jon asked distractedly, looking up from the thick binder he was pawing through. As soon as he processed it was her, his eyes went wide and his hands froze on the desk.</p>
<p>	Vivian closed the office door with a soft click and strode fully into the room, depositing the crisp brown bag she carried unceremoniously on the desk next to one of Jon’s lightly trembling hands. “Sorry I tried to kill you yesterday. Have a pastry.”</p>
<p> 	Jon looked, dumbfound, between the bag and her.</p>
<p>	“Oh. Well. Quite frankly I anticipated a second attempt.” He gulped. “A more successful one.”</p>
<p>	“Yes, well. I run a little hot on occasion.” She flapped her hand vaguely, taking the seat across from him.</p>
<p>	“You don’t say.” Jon said dryly. “Can I trust this isn’t poisoned?” He glanced at the bag meaningfully.</p>
<p>	“I think we can agree I am more inclined to a hands-on approach.”</p>
<p>	Jon rolled his eyes. </p>
<p>	“So to the other point, I figured it would be a gesture in good faith to tell you about my meeting with Martin.”</p>
<p>	Jon’s gaze snapped into focus and she tipped her head at the intensity. Was Jon always this intense or did the Eye sharpen him over time? “Yes?”</p>
<p>	“He tried to feed me to the Lonely.” </p>
<p>	Jon stared at her for a long moment. “He tried to….?” He shook his head, disbelieving. “You must have done something to provoke him.” </p>
<p>	“Absolutely.” She agreed. “Regardless, however, I would still wager that is drastically out of character for him.”</p>
<p>	Jon fiddled restlessly with his pen while he thought. “Perhaps. But I’m certainly not going to discuss that with you. You’re working for Elias, I can trust you about as far as I can throw you.”</p>
<p>	“And with those scrawny arms? Not very far at all. I just thought you should be aware that he’s grown that strong. He’s neck-deep in the Lonely and he’s going to need something with a hell of a punch to get him out. If that’s what you’re intending, of course.”</p>
<p>	“Of course I am.” Jon murmured. </p>
<p>	“You know he did it for you, right? Trying to exile me to the Forsaken.” </p>
<p>	“<i>What</i>?”</p>
<p>	“He was doing it to protect you. From me.” She smiled slyly. </p>
<p>	“He won’t even <i>talk</i> to me.” </p>
<p>	“The only way to leave the Heartbreak is to sever all your heartstrings. Did you know that?” She drummed her sharp nails against the desktop. “You can’t be afraid of love if you can’t love.” She tilted her head like a bird spotting something shiny. “And if the price of love is to be a monster, I will pay the toll again and again.”</p>
<p>	“I….didn’t know that. Sorry, I’m not sure I’m following?”</p>
<p>	Vivian sighed, leaning into her palm as she propped an elbow on her desk. “Martin Blackwood is becoming a monster for you, Archivist. Think on that.” She eyed the little ember in his chest, the tiny lantern of light that tied him to Martin. </p>
<p>	She left without another word, shutting the door behind her.</p>
<p>	Once again, everyone was looking at her on a spectrum of curiosity and distrust. Perhaps rage. Rage was good. </p>
<p>	“So what did I miss yesterday?”</p>
<p>	“You cannot be kidding me.” Basira said. “Like we’re going to work with you after you tried to murder Jon?”</p>
<p>	Vivian crossed her arms. “Rumor has it it’s practically a rite of passage here.” She glanced meaningfully at Melanie then Daisy. </p>
<p>	Daisy had lost quite a bit of her fire from before and at her remark she looked equally indignant and ashamed. </p>
<p>	Melanie shrugged. “I mean, you have a point, but I don’t like it.”</p>
<p>	“Just give me the job no one else wants to do.” </p>
<p>	The others exchanged glances.</p>
<p>	“Someone needs to go do recon at Laurie and Frederick’s apartment.” Melanie finally said.</p>
<p>	“We lost moss man’s trail a ways passed the morgue.” Daisy said begrudgingly. “Blended into the sewers.”</p>
<p>	“Lovely. We have a sewer-compatible moss man.” She sighed. “Alright. I’ll get the key from Jon. Any word from Laurie today?”</p>
<p>	“I sent her a message letting her know we were wrapping things up and if she ever wanted to reach out to us we were here to help.” Tim shrugged. “Didn’t want to spook her unless it’s necessary. She thanked me and said she’d keep that in mind. I would hope she would mention if her eldritch ex had shown up.”</p>
<p>	Vivian nodded. “Good. Okay. See you in a few hours.” </p>
<p>	“Don’t get eaten.” Melanie said cheerfully.</p>
<p>	“Or do.” Basira muttered.</p>
<p>	She got the key from Jon. He had icing on his lips and a curious look on his face, like he was only half-seeing her. </p>
<p>	She was walking down the steps of the Institute, scanning the address to figure out what station she’d need to get off at, when she heard her name.</p>
<p>	“Vivian!” Tim caught up, falling into step with her.</p>
<p>	“What are you doing here?” She asked blankly.</p>
<p>	“I—I didn’t want you to go alone. Didn’t seem very sportsmanlike.”</p>
<p>	“I—Chrissake, Tim, this isn’t a game of rugby. I am going to check out an apartment that may or may not have a literal sludge beast inside it. Are you—do you have a death wish?”</p>
<p>	Tim looked at the ground, jaw working.</p>
<p>	“Ugh. Come along, then, Stoker, if you’re so intent on a participation trophy.” </p>
<p>	They walked on in an almost easy silence. He waited for her to board the tube first.</p>
<p>	“Is that…is that <i>blood</i> on your shirt?” He asked incredulously.</p>
<p>	She glanced down at her sleeve where there was, in fact, blood on the cuff.</p>
<p>	“Mind your business.” She settled into a seat imperiously.</p>
<p>        “<i>Did you kill someone</i>?” He whispered furiously, though not quietly enough because an older woman shot them an angry, bewildered look.</p>
<p>	“Not recently.” </p>
<p>	He did not look convinced, but that was a problem for him to solve, not her.</p>
<p>	When they got to the landing of Laurie and Frederick’s old apartment, they stared at the door for one collective moment.</p>
<p>	“Well.” Vivian said.</p>
<p>	“Yeah.” Tim agreed. </p>
<p>	“What are the odds that there’s a mindless moss cretin in there, d’you think?”</p>
<p>	“I don’t know. What are the odds that there is mindless moss cretin-making mould in there?”</p>
<p>	“Hm. That’s an angle I didn’t consider.” She fit the key in the lock and turned it. “So many possibilities and all of them bad.”</p>
<p>	There was, in fact, mindless moss-cretin making mould in the apartment. Practically wall-papering the apartment. Vivian whistled. “Well this is going to be havoc on the lungs.”</p>
<p>         Sickly strings of plant matter carpeted the floor, moving about wetly. Vivian bent down for a closer look then reared back.</p>
<p>	“Oh my god it’s alive the floor is alive.” She said. Slimy, forest-coloured creatures writhed and wriggled on the hardwood floor. She took a bracing breath and continued deeper into the apartment.</p>
<p>	“Are we sure—this doesn’t seem like a good idea.”</p>
<p>	“It’s not.” Vivian agreed. She was both grateful and mournful she wore sturdy boots that day. On the one hand, they kept the living carpet from touching her. On the other, she’d have to burn them with extreme prejudice later. A funeral pyre in memory of their brave service.</p>
<p>	Tim made some truly novel sounds of disgust as he waded into the apartment behind her.</p>
<p>	“I think it’s scientific to say this is, in fact, a verifiable statement aligned with the Corruption and my professional statement for this field research is, ‘fuck this top to bottom.’” Vivian found a patch of flooring void of creepy crawlies. “I’m going to send a picture to Jon and Laurie. She shouldn’t come back here. Honestly the whole place should probably be torched.”</p>
<p>	“There’s not much salvageable here.” Tim added. “Mould and moss and….worms? Salamanders? Some of them have too many legs and some don’t have enough and I don’t like any of it.” Case in point, he yelped when one of the creatures in the ‘too many legs’ category skittered over one of his shoes.</p>
<p>	“<i>LaaaaAAAAuuurrRiiiEEEEE</i>?” </p>
<p>	Vivian dropped into a defensive stance, casing the room with a swift gaze. </p>
<p>	“What the--?” Tim uttered just as behind him a patch of Corruption became denser and denser, building itself into a monolith of filth.</p>
<p>	“Tim.” Vivian snapped. “Get behind me.” </p>
<p>	He looked over his shoulder as the pillar of nasties began to take on a more refined shape. He swore, diving to get to where Vivian stood.</p>
<p>	“<i>Lllllllaaaaurrriiiieeeeee—Laurie</i>.”</p>
<p>	The figure resolved itself into what could charitably be called a humanoid. </p>
<p>	“<i>Laurieeeee, look what you made me do</i>.” Strings of rotten flora spilled from what could only be Frederick Gaines’s lips, which were covered in blue mould the colour of hypothermia. Obsidian worms squirmed in and out of one cheek. His entrails were dangling to the ground, a mass of lichen and mushrooms and those terrible unnatural creatures.</p>
<p>	“Tim, you should leave now.” Vivian said, not taking her eyes off the formerly human monster and now monster-monster. </p>
<p>	“I can’t—I won’t just <i>leave</i> you here.”</p>
<p>	“What are you going to do to help me? Banter it to death? You’ll only be a liability.”</p>
<p>	He looked somewhat wounded, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. “I’ll bring help.” He promised through gritted teeth. He made a dash for the door.</p>
<p>	And the carpet of moss became an ocean, a sick roil that sent Tim staggering back. </p>
<p>	“No!” Vivian shouted as Gaines threw Tim to the ground, his skull making a horrible crack against the hardwood.</p>
<p>	“<i>Where are you going, Laaaurrrieeee? You know you’ll alwayssss come back</i>.”</p>
<p>	Vivian threw a punch at the back of the creature’s head, only to be tossed aside like a doll. It did, however, get its attention off of Tim, who was clutching his head, dazed and in pain. </p>
<p>	“<i>Isssss it time for another lesssson</i>?” Gaines gurgled. “<i>Don’t throw the firsssst punch if you’re not sure you’ll be the one throwing the lassssst</i>.” He bore down on Vivian, who fought not to retch at the smell of decaying flesh and flora. He wrapped a hand around her throat, pale fingers wrapped in layers of grime and mildew. Vivian sucked in air desperately as her vision began to blur. </p>
<p>	She tried to get a grip on his heart, but there was nothing left in his barren, putrid chest. She hurriedly spun false threads, weaving them round and round his body, his choking hands, his long neck.</p>
<p>	And she <i>pulled</i>.</p>
<p>	Like a garrote, the strings pulled tighter and tighter until they bit like wire into his throat, releasing black sludge. As it stumbled back, she gave one fierce tug with all her might as she panted.</p>
<p>	His head came clean off. </p>
<p>	Well, off, anyways. </p>
<p>	She fell to her knees, sliding into the layers of slime. Centipedes and beetles slunk away. She glanced at Gaines’s broken body, watched the thick blue foam rise from his mottled lips before he caved into a mass of squirming, squalling decay. She vomited, which did not actually do much to worsen the apartment’s situation.<br/>She made her way to Tim, who was still looking out of it, propped up and glancing blearily about.</p>
<p>	“Tim.” She said. When he didn’t respond, she slapped him. “<i>Tim</i>.”</p>
<p>	He flinched and labored to focus on her. “I don’t think…that’s actually as useful as the films suggest.”</p>
<p>	“You’re talking, aren’t you? Come on. We need to leave. Now.” She helped him up, and continued to support him as he wobbled. “Where’s your flat?”</p>
<p>	He rambled off his address before narrowing his eyes and looking distantly concerned. “I don’t want you to know where I live.”</p>
<p>	She huffed out a breath.</p>
<p>	They traveled at a snail’s pace. Everyone they passed gave them alarmed and disgusted looks, crusted in paranormal refuse as they were. Vivian tasted a truly hellish cocktail of vomit and rancid lichen. Each step was a squish in her boots. She tried not to focus too hard on Tim other than making sure he was walking and relatively coherent. They had both practically used the apartment as a rotten slip-n-slide and she was trying to astral project out of her skull and away from her ravaged body.</p>
<p>	It was a painstaking experience, but they finally made it to Tim’s place.</p>
<p>	Tim, always considerate in his timing, collapsed on his doorstep.</p>
<p>	Vivian hummed irritably. She patted down his body, retrieved his flat key from his wallet. She pushed the door wide open and took a cursory glance about the inside before turning back to the tall man.</p>
<p>	She set about dragging him inside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Tim is a whole snack and we talk about Sasha because we love and cherish Sasha in this household.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello friends and fam! I hope you are doing A-OK.</p>
<p>Just finished the final episode in Act I &amp; let me say,, this cathartic fic is coming all the way in clutch. I just want everyone to have a nice time but likely they will All have a Very Bad Time, and I am trapped in the bumper car with them.</p>
<p>CWs for this chapter: emotional manipulation, impulsive decisions, self destructive behavior.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vivian hauled Tim onto his couch with minimal grace and maximum swearing. She could hold her own in the ring but she was not accustomed to dealing with a Tim-sized amount of dead weight. She crossed to his kitchenette, dampened a towel hanging off the rack and carried it back with a glass of water. She dabbed at his face, her nose scrunching as she scrubbed at the viscous slime and partially dried plant matter. They were going to need to start a burn pile. At least no crawlies had hitchhiked with them.</p>
<p>	“Up.” She ordered, bracing his weight against hers as she coaxed him into a sitting position.</p>
<p>	Tim started mumbling incoherently after a minute or so, eyes opening blearily. Once his face was clear of all the paranormal muck she could get, she pressed the glass of water into his unresponsive fingers, holding it still until he got a good grip.</p>
<p>	“Drink.” She commanded. 	</p>
<p>	He muttered something but obliged, tipping the glass toward his lips. He missed by a little, but Vivian steadied the glass so only a dribble of water spilled down his chin. After a few minutes his eyes had true focus in them, and he began to be coherent.</p>
<p>	“We’re at my flat.” He said, casting his gaze about.</p>
<p>	“Astute.” She commended, getting up and re-wetting the cloth once she was satisfied he wouldn’t keel over. She used the flip side to roughly scrub at her face. With the adrenaline in deep decline, her brain had way too much room to process the pains and—almost worse—the smells of their encounter with the Corruption. She scrubbed until her face felt raw, then scrubbed some more, working Tim’s lemony dish soap into her flesh. When she turned around, he was looking at her oddly.</p>
<p>	“What?”</p>
<p>	“You saved me back there.”</p>
<p>	“I don’t know if I’d say ‘saved.’ I mostly just didn’t allow you to die.” Vivian leaned against the counter, depositing the ruined towel in the side of the sink without dishes. </p>
<p>	He shrugged. “Same effect. Thank you.”</p>
<p>	“Yes alright, you’re welcome. You promise you’re not going to go unconscious on me again?”</p>
<p>	“I’ll do my best.”</p>
<p>	“Perfect. I’m using your shower. No telling what nasty side effects this goo could have. Any open wounds you have, you need to clean and dress.”</p>
<p>	Tim ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he’d aged years in the last several hours. “Yes. Fine. You’re right. I have a small guest room, you can use that.” </p>
<p>	“Mm.” She grunted as a thank-you. She hammered out a quick text to Jon, then disappeared down the hall, ready to peel her skin off if she steeped one more second in eldritch guts. She stepped in, clothes and boots and all, cranking the dial straight to scorching. Once her clothes were weighted down with water and soap, she gave them a moment to rinse before peeling them off and leaving them on the floor of the tub. There was some kind of honey-and-pine artisanal liquid soap on the ledge of the tub, as well as unscented shampoo. She applied all of the above liberally, staying under the onslaught of hellish water until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She dragged a hand through her short, wet hair, gaze locked with herself in the mirror. There were deep bruises beginning to form where Gaines had squeezed his hands around her throat. She healed a bit faster than an average human due to her patron’s benevolence, but it would be tender for several days yet.</p>
<p>	When she exited the bathroom, there was a pair of joggers and a warm maroon jumper draped over the little pull-out sofa. She tugged them on gratefully, having to tighten the trousers as far as they would go. She padded out of the office/guest room, boots in hand, her bare feet leaving a trail of wet prints down the hall. She found Tim leaning against the counter, forehead in palm, as he watched the kettle boil. </p>
<p>	“I let Jon know not to expect us back today. With no crisis on the horizon, I think it’s wise for us to take a breather.” </p>
<p>	Tim glanced up at her, then again up and down her. She did not waver under his curious gaze. It wasn’t a consuming gaze, not one of passion, anyways. “Feeling better?”</p>
<p>	“As fresh a daisy as one can be after writhing around on a living carpet of filth and being manhandled by a swamp monster.”</p>
<p>	He frowned, eyes panning to the bruises forming around her neck. “It’s good he’s dead.”</p>
<p>	“How about you? How are you feeling?”</p>
<p>	He pressed a couple of fingertips into the base of his skull, wincing. “I can feel a knot forming. Took something for the headache, though, not worried about going comatose in my sleep or anything.”</p>
<p>	She nodded, satisfied. “Alright, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? I left my number on the pad on the desk in your office, let me know if there’s any trouble.” She had almost made it to the door when he cleared his throat. She looked back at him, his eyes fixed back on the kettle, which was beginning to scream. </p>
<p>	“You could stay for a bit.” He suggested, an odd mix of emotion in his voice.</p>
<p>	She paused. “Why?”</p>
<p>	It was hard to tell in the dimmed lighting of the kitchen, but she thought he might have blushed a little as he scowled.</p>
<p>	“I just thought—never mind.”</p>
<p>	Vivian tilted her head, assessing. What a strange, reckless man. “I’m hungry.”</p>
<p>	“You’re welcome to whatever groceries are in the fridge. I admit I haven’t been as on top of it as of late, but…”</p>
<p>	“Not that hungry.”</p>
<p>	His furrowed brows smoothed into comprehension then back into furrows. “Oh.”</p>
<p>	“Yes, ‘oh.’” She agreed. The energy it had taken to conjure so many threads and channel enough force into them to fell the creature formerly known as Gaines had left her just this side of ravenous. “I can come back, after, if you’d like.”</p>
<p>	He bit his lip as if he were gatekeeping his words, then let them out in a rush. “You could take something from me.”</p>
<p>	Now she practically craned her head like an owl. “What are you on about, Tim? Are you feverish? You did get all the mould right? Did you inhale it?”</p>
<p>	He released a long-suffering breath through his nose. “I just…I’d rather not think about you hunting the streets for a poor bloke to feed off of.”</p>
<p>	“So you’re volunteering to be my poor bloke, hm? A charitable donor to the cause?” She said, chill as ice. “I’m a monster, Stoker. Stop kidding yourself.”</p>
<p>	“I’m not—look, I’m well aware you’re not—you’re not human anymore and you do terrible things <i>but for just this moment</i>, I would like to put that on the back burner. We almost died today. I just want—I just want one nice thing.”</p>
<p>	“I am not nice and I am certainly not a thing.” </p>
<p>	Tim rolled his eyes. “You’re exasperating is what you are. Now will you or will you not accept my offer?”</p>
<p>	She wanted to, that was not a question. Some baser part of her preferred to rip the fear from people, glut on the unexpected terror. But she was hungry, and he was willing, and her body had been put through the wringer and honestly sometimes you just needed a good delivery instead of preparing the meal yourself.</p>
<p>	“Do you even know what you’re offering?” She asked, fingers idling across his exposed heartstrings like fingertips sliding across piano keys. He shivered. “What do you think you have that you could bear to part with? What room in your heart do you have for more nightmares?” She read each string, much like a tarot spread, each gave an impression, not the full picture.</p>
<p>	“Jon. Martin. The barely there saplings of Basira and Melanie and Daisy. Your parents…you’ve kept them at arm’s length since things went horrific at the Institute. Your uni mates…you only see here and there. They’re your last real foothold in normalcy. A reminder of who you were before the Eye spoiled you from the inside. Danny…”</p>
<p>	“Don’t touch him.” Tim snapped, a wild look cresting in his gaze. </p>
<p>	“Sweet Danny. Brave Danny. Vibrant Danny.” She murmured. “Spirited away and he didn’t even know.” She stroked the heartstring once, letting it run through her fingers. She patted it lightly and released it. “No, of course not Danny.” Now that she was done being captivated by the brightest of his threads, she turned her attention to the second-most interesting: the most vile, warped thread. It felt like an oil slick, deep ochre, grimy under her fingers. </p>
<p>	“Sasha James.” </p>
<p>	Tim’s hand stayed her wrist. She hadn’t even realized she’d drawn closer, tinkering as she was with the heartstrings shining before her. </p>
<p>	“Not her, either.” He said softly.</p>
<p>	“It’s all mucked up, Tim. I can taste the Not-Them all over.”</p>
<p>	“I don’t remember her.” Tim admitted, throat working. “I don’t remember her and I know she was important and I know there is a space inside of me where she should be and if I—if I let go of her, if I let go of Not-Sasha, it will take Sasha with it. At least—at least with it there, I remember that I should remember her. I remember that she was.”</p>
<p>	She threaded Not-Sasha between her fingertips like a game of Cat’s Cradle. “Sasha James had a perfect poker face. It didn’t have to be cards. You did not know what she was thinking unless she wanted you to. Her hair was long, so long. It was relaxed the first time you met her. But when you got assigned to the Archives, her natural hair had grown back. She wore it in locs and tinted them the color of autumn, of copper in the sun. She wore thin wire circular frames. She was the hand that steadied the team. Not maternal, but nurturing all the same. Her laugh was more of a cackle.”</p>
<p>	“You’re…are you making that up?” There was a sheen to his eyes. </p>
<p>	“That would be rather cruel of me.”</p>
<p>	“You’re a cruel creature.” He whispered without heat.</p>
<p>	She knew it. She believed it. She embraced it. So why did it feel like ever so tiny thorns caught in her stomach when he agreed?</p>
<p>	“Do you trust me?” She asked.</p>
<p>	He shook his head, face still drawn in the fear of belief. “No.”</p>
<p>	“Good.” She said sincerely. </p>
<p>        She tore Not-Them right from his chest.  </p>
<p>	He gasped and shuddered, and she pressed a hand against his chest to steady him. Beneath the grime of the child of the Stranger, Sasha James stayed, released from her prison. Or her sanctuary, if you were an optimist. </p>
<p>	Vivian was not.</p>
<p>	She barely registered Tim’s rough sobs, his forehead pressed into her shoulder. </p>
<p>	Not-Them was absolutely invigorating. So much fear had been steeped inside him, fear of losing his last tie to this woman who meant so much, so much fear that he kept her murderer close to his heart, a chafing ache that reopened the wound again and again in a ceaseless merry-go-round. The Heartbreak was very, very pleased.</p>
<p>	“I can see—her face.” Tim said, a rapture of loss and renewal. She patted him absently on the shoulder, guided him to one of the bar stools facing the kitchenette, and set about getting them each a cuppa. The water was barely warm enough to make slightly better than tepid tea, but she paid it little mind. When it was prepared, she set down a mug in front of Tim with a sharp clink. </p>
<p>	“Thank you.” He murmured when he was recovered. </p>
<p>	“Any time.” She arched a brow. “Not often me eating someone’s trauma like a Chinese has them appreciative.”</p>
<p>	He huffed out a slightly watery laugh.</p>
<p>    	“Ready for people food by the way.” She said. Now that her supernatural needs were met, her dumb mortal body was whining. “You’re cooking.”</p>
<p>	He looked like he was about to argue, back to fighting shape as his generally disagreeable self, but then he sighed. “Yeah, fine.” </p>
<p>	Thirty minutes later they were sitting on the couch, eating a curry, watching some true crime show that was rather vanilla in comparison to their actual lives.</p>
<p>	“These people are very bad at murder.” Vivian observed.</p>
<p>	“Would you rather they were good at it?”</p>
<p>	“I would rather not be experiencing this much secondhand embarrassment.”</p>
<p>	By the time three episodes rolled by, the sky had almost finished setting. </p>
<p>	“I’m staying the night.” Vivian said casually, as if it were a given.</p>
<p>	“You are?” Tim asked wryly. “Funny that, I don’t remember asking.” </p>
<p>	“I saved your life.” </p>
<p>	“You didn’t let me die.” He parroted her words back to her. </p>
<p>	“Yes, and I deserve a reward, because it was quite tempting. You’re rather abrasive, you know.”</p>
<p>	Tim rolled his eyes. “Fine. You may crash on my couch.” </p>
<p>	“I think I’m worth the bed.” She said haughtily.</p>
<p>	There was instantly quite a lovely color in his cheeks.</p>
<p>	“I—”</p>
<p>	“<i>You</i> don’t have to be in it.” She clarified. She put aside the pillow that she had been hugging to her chest, dropped her plate in the sink, and left without waiting for his reply. </p>
<p>	His room was warm, like she’d expected. Warm lighting, earth tones with pops of jewel tones, like Mother Nature herself had been his interior decorator. She put her phone on the nightstand and snuggled down under the duvet, not getting under the sheets. </p>
<p>	Several minutes ticked by before she heard Tim’s approaching footsteps. He pushed open the door and stood staring at her for a moment. “I’m not sleeping on my couch in my own home.”</p>
<p>	She patted the bed beside her. “Alright. Come along, then.”</p>
<p>	He approached the bed like it was a bear trap, gingerly turning down the sheets. Vivian turned off the light and turned on her side, facing away from him.</p>
<p>	“Good night, Timothy Stoker.”</p>
<p>	“…Good night, Viv.”</p>
<p>	Body weighted with exhaustion, patron sated with fear, Vivian slipped into cozy nightmares.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>S O F T  T I M. Soft Tim must be protected at all costs.</p>
<p>FT.: there was actually More than one bed but we're gonna act like there's only one anyways!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Tim gets lucky and Jon gets a statement, as a treat.</p><p>CWs for this chapter: emotional manipulation, canon-typical body horror, impulsive decisions, potentially self-destructive behavior, minor mention of addiction.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was a fool to think I could write a self-indulgent catharsis fix-it fic where Tim is alive and the team has more quality time together without this becoming a Tim-Needs-to-Have-His-Trauma-Addressed fic where I take any and every opportunity to give him +1 serotonin.</p><p>This may look like we are beginning to have a nice time but that's the Spiral talking to you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was not rare for Vivian to wake up in someone else’s bed and not alone, so it took her a moment to process exactly what ended her up there this time. The memories of yesterday unreeled slowly as she woke, the feeling of sharp nails in her throat, moss creeping along her skin.</p><p>	She found herself curled around Tim, still on top of the sheets so they weren’t quite touching. She let herself stay a moment, appreciate the weighted warmth of him. Then she slowly extracted herself, gently pulling her arm from where it was draped over his waist, where her fingers rested on his open palm.</p><p>	He rolled over.</p><p>	“Hello Timothy Stoker.” She said.</p><p>	“Viv?” He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, rising to a half-sitting position, propped up on one elbow.</p><p>	“Sure am.” </p><p>	He scrubbed a hand over his face, let out a sigh. “Mm. Thought I might have gotten lucky and it was just a nightmare.”</p><p>	She broke into a sharp grin. “Oh, good, I thought you were going to be awkward or nice or something.”</p><p>	He looked up at her balefully. “Fear not.” The attempted venom was somewhat ruined by the bedhead. </p><p>	“So other than boringly unbothered, how are you feeling?” She asked. “Took quite a crack back there. Any brains leaking out? Centipedes in your sockets? The temptation to muck about in a sewer like your local mutant turtle? Any mould—”</p><p>	“<i>Right as rain, thanks</i>.” He bit out.</p><p>	“Well this has been absolutely underwhelming.”</p><p>	He rolled his eyes. “What about you?” His voice went a degree softer as his gaze traveled below her face.</p><p>	She tested her fingertips on top of the prints left by Gaines, winced and smiled at the pressure on the tender bruises. “Oh, I’m doing just fine.” Her smile turned feral. “You should see the other guy.”</p><p>	She cocked her head. “Wait, you did see the other guy, right? I cut his head off. I’ve a pic on my phone if you like. It’s my new wallpaper.” </p><p>	Tim grimaced. “You really enjoy it, don’t you? Being a monster.”</p><p>	“Okay, but really, did you see him?” She asked, leaning toward the bedside table, reaching for her phone.</p><p>	He batted it out of her hand and it dropped to her lap.</p><p>	“Yes.” He said quietly. “I saw.”</p><p>	“And?” She asked hopefully. </p><p>	“And…what?”</p><p>	“What’d y’think?” </p><p>	“It was…about the…about you beheading a guy?”</p><p>	She lifted a finger. “An abusive swamp creature.”</p><p>	“Formerly a guy.” Tim said dryly. </p><p>	“A post-human filth monster.” </p><p>	“Fine. Whatever.” He rolled his eyes again and Viv was tempted to tell him he was likely to get stuck that way any time now. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’re not getting it.”</p><p>	“Bold of you to assume you have anything I’d want.” She smiled coolly. “And yes, since you’re so hinged on it.”</p><p>	His brows ticked down in confusion.</p><p>	“Being a monster. I. Enjoy. It.” Her smile deepened at his apparent discomfort. The ember of her heart burned blue, scathing in its light. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to feel guilty like Jon? Or hollowed out, like you?”	</p><p>	He moved to sit up with a harsh movement. “Maybe you should go.” </p><p>	“<i>Maybe</i> you shouldn’t have asked me to stay.”</p><p>	“Maybe.” He agreed, looking away, jaw clenched.</p><p>	She grabbed his jaw and gently wrenched his face to look at her. She ignored the shock and anger. She did not ignore the fear, because that was quality content. “You’re a miserable little monster, aren’t you?” She asked softly, still with a cruel bent. “You thought it all started and ended with the Circus.”</p><p>	He jerked back. “Stop.”</p><p>	“Thought when you walked in that building that it would go burning down with you.” She tilted her head. “And it did. But you crawled out of the fire. What was left was misshapen and volatile and empty, but it was you.”	</p><p>	“Shut. Up.” There was static underneath his voice, a white noise that made her teeth hurt.</p><p>	She arched a brow. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, hand fisted and trembling in the sheets.</p><p>	“Case in point, little monster.” </p><p>	“I wasn’t supposed to survive.”</p><p>	“No.” She agreed.</p><p>	“I was supposed to end it, that sick thing that stole Danny, and then I was supposed to be free of all this...fucking depravity.” </p><p>	“But you were pulled back kicking and screaming. Yes, Elias told me all about it.”</p><p>	“<i>Fuck. Elias</i>.” </p><p>	“Tempting, I know. What with the face and the tailoring. But between you and me, he seems like a bit of a taker.” </p><p>	He was practically vibrating with rage, but maybe that was just the static humming, the sharp metallic taste in her mouth. </p><p>	“You’re a monster, Timothy Stoker.” She said simply. “It’s up to you if you want to be a miserable one.” </p><p>	“There’s nothing else.” Tim said, the anger all mixed in the despair. It was rather giving her sweet tooth a terrible ache. </p><p>	She splayed her hand over his heart, drawing gently on all the little entanglements there. He sucked in a breath. </p><p>	“More than you thought, yeah?” She asked. </p><p>	“I don’t—” He cut himself off. </p><p>	“Danny and Sasha are the pillars of your heart, yes. But there’s Martin and, yes, Jon, all your mates you think you’re too dangerous for now, your parents waiting for each Happy Christmas call, Melanie desperate to dig a bit under your skin, even Basira and Daisy creeping in at the edges like gossamer, if gossamer reluctantly cared about whether you lived or died.” She refused to tell him about the worrying thread between them, one apart from the fake thread she’d woven to keep tabs on him. A small, panicking part of her wanted to shred it, but her fear pleased her patron and she would not withhold the One Who Plays Strings its feast.</p><p>	Tim bit his lip and she was curious to see if he’d break skin. </p><p>        She leaned forward. “Do you trust me?”</p><p>	“No.” He said on a shaky breath, glancing at her lips.</p><p>	“Good. Don’t ever start.” She said earnestly. She moved slowly, giving him time to move away, and when he didn’t, she pressed feather light kisses along the side of his face with burn scars and the ghosts of holes riddled by worms, working from his temple to his jaw. </p><p>	“Oh.” He breathed.</p><p>	“You are annoyingly beautiful.” She said.</p><p>	<i>Then</i> she went for his lips, giving them a sharp tug.</p><p>	The sound he made <i>then</i> was thrilling. </p><p>	Her phone rang.</p><p>	“Hullo.” She answered, drawing back and looking at Tim as Jon sputtered on the other end of the line.</p><p>	“<i>Finally</i>.” </p><p>	“Yes, Jon, hello, how can I be of service?”</p><p>	“How can you be of--? Telling me what the fuck is going on is a start!”</p><p>	“Did you not read my message?”</p><p>	“You said ‘<i>Ran into swamp monster, rude bloke, did Tim in a bit, we’ll be in tomorrow if we’re alive.</i>’ And then you sent me a selfie with a <i>severed head</i>.”</p><p>	“Yes.”</p><p>	“And you don’t—you don’t see how that’s <i>worrying</i>?”</p><p>	“I felt it was rather informative.”</p><p>	She heard his sharp exhale through the speaker.</p><p>	“How’s Tim? Is he okay?”</p><p>	She raised her eyebrows. “Tim? No he’s an idiot.” </p><p>	Tim did not like that. Tim frowned.</p><p>	“I want to talk with him.” </p><p>	“Then call Tim’s phone.” She hung up. </p><p>	She tapped her phone with a sharp acrylic. “That was Jon.”</p><p>	“I’m aware.”</p><p>	“He’s quite worried over you.”</p><p>	“I see that.” Tim ran his thumb over his bottom lip.</p><p>	She hummed. Her phone lit up again and she turned the ringer off, cutting the music off at its throat. “It would be kind to throw him a bone.”</p><p>	“You’re giving pointers on kindness now, are you?</p><p>	Viv smiled, kicking back the covers and stretching. “I was a therapist in another life, you know.” She made to get up. Given that they were, in fact, alive, they should probably go about doing their jobs. </p><p>	Tim put a staying hand on her wrist. She looked at him. </p><p>	His hand slid up, pausing at the hem of her jumper—<i>his</i> jumper—and then dipped under, resting on her soft stomach.</p><p>	“There’s something—broken in me. Wrong.” He said. </p><p>	“Yes.” She agreed. You didn’t become an avatar if you were all together. </p><p>	“I can’t—I can’t feel things right, anymore. I don’t care the same ways I used to.” </p><p>	“You’re saying this as if it’s a warning.”</p><p>	His brows furrowed. </p><p>	She ran a finger over the scars along his forearm. “You forgot. I’m a monster, Tim. You don’t have to worry about my feelings.”</p><p>	“What if I want to?”</p><p>	The fear was a sharp prick under her skin. “Then I suppose you’re a fool.” </p><p>	“A fool, then.” He tipped her chin up, kissing her so softly it made her ache and feel hunted, the fight or flight instinct hammering away in the back of her skull. His other hand slid down her neck, so careful of her bruised throat that he was barely touching her at all. </p><p>	He shifted, moving so that his legs bracketed hers. She slid a hand up one leg, worrying the fabric at his hipbone until she could stroke it with her thumb, unobstructed.</p><p>	“Guess I’ll get to see what all the precinct fuss is about after all.” She began, dragging her fingertips across his stomach, wandering below the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. “Is this how you conduct all your official interviews—”</p><p>	“Shut up.” He said. This time the static was a soft buzz. </p><p>	“I think—” She said with a bit of difficulty. “—you’re getting a little too comfortable with that.”</p><p>	“Decided to try being a little less miserable.” He bent to nip at her collarbone, then work his way up her throat with gingerly placed kisses. “Enjoy it, just a little.” Her breathing hitched a little despite herself and she felt him smile against her skin. </p><p>	By the time they made it into the Archives, it was well into the afternoon.</p><p>	“Good to see you alive.” Melanie greeted. She glanced at Vivian. “Well, you at least, Tim.”</p><p>	Viv shot her a shark-toothed grin.</p><p>	“Is that Tim’s jumper?” Basira asked, eyes narrowed.</p><p>	Vivian had stopped by her flat on the way in, swapped out his joggers for trousers that actually fit, a high-waisted number with faux gold buttons. But she had insisted on wearing the jumper—well, insisted wasn’t the right word. Stoker had objected and she proceeded in doing what she wanted, as was her way. “Yes.”</p><p>	“<i>No</i>.” Tim said emphatically.</p><p>	Viv rolled her eyes. “I dragged his arse back to his flat after saving his life from an eldritch pond beast, the least he could do was offer me a clean jumper. Do you know how hard it is to get paranormal mould and rotten plant matter out of your clothes? The answer is impossible.” </p><p>	“That was yesterday.” Melanie pointed out.</p><p>	Viv shot her a finger gun and walked into Jon’s office without preamble, closing the door behind her.</p><p>	“Hello, Archivist.”</p><p>	Jon looked up from his desk which was currently a mess of cassette tapes and manila folders. There was a mug on the corner of his desk that she knew via heartstring was the one Martin always steeped tea for him in and that it had sat dreadfully empty for months. “Vivian.”</p><p>	“I figured I’d give you a statement. As a treat.” She smiled slyly. </p><p>	He looked both eager and resentful of that fact and it delighted her verily.</p><p>	“I feel Tim’s will be sufficient.” He said begrudgingly.</p><p>	“Oh, but mine will taste better. Tim is rather bland when it comes to details, and I rather think he’ll be more reticent when it comes to sustaining you.” </p><p>	Jon scrubbed a hand over his face. “You are an exhausting creature.”</p><p>	“Mm.” She agreed. “So shall we begin?” She glanced down at the pile of cassette tapes, trusting one was blank or otherwise one would appear obligingly. “Hello, Watcher. Are you ready to Behold?”</p><p>	“Don’t <i>talk</i> to it.” </p><p>	A tape clicked on. Jon sighed.</p><p>	“Unlike most of your team, I actually have manners, Archivist. Besides, the Eye is my gracious host currently and it would be catastrophically remiss to not pay my respects in its domain.” </p><p>	The tape whirred in what she interpreted as acknowledgment. </p><p>	She looked at Jon expectantly, beatific smile in place.</p><p>	He sighed again, even more labored. “Statement of Vivian St. Claire regarding the abomination formerly known as Frederick Gaines, believed to be a manifestation of the Corruption. Statement taken directly from subject, August 17th, 2018.”</p><p>	He looked up at Vivian expectantly, but there was a gloss to the look, like he was viewing her through stained glass. She could hear the fresh static churning, building, encapsulating the room.</p><p>	“<i>Statement begins</i>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Be well be safe!</p>
<p>Concrit in good faith appreciated &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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